Flying Lessons
by navigatio
Summary: "Ready, Wanda? Just like we practiced." Cap has a fantastic idea: Teach new team member Wanda Maximoff to control her powers so she can throw him to places he can't easily jump to. It'll be just like flying. What can possibly go wrong? Better buckle up that cowl, Cap, it's going to be a wild ride. Lesson 10: Wanda lets go. COMPLETE.
1. Lesson 1: It's mostly mental

**Flying lessons**

Or: How to throw Captain America through a window, in 10 easy lessons

* * *

 **Summary** : "Ready, Wanda? Just like we practiced."

The Captain has a fantastic idea: Teach Wanda Maximoff AKA the Scarlet Witch AKA The Weird Twin to control her powers so she can throw him to places he can't easily jump to. It'll be just like flying. What can possibly go wrong?

Better buckle up that cowl, Cap, it's going to be a wild ride.

(Set in the interlude between Avengers: Age of Ultron and Captain America: Civil War. No pairings, no slash)

* * *

 **Lesson One** : It's mostly mental

* * *

I don't like American television. The plots and characters are ridiculous, the violence is over the top, and the fashions are hideous. But I watch it because it shows me, not who Americans are, but who they want to be, or who they think they are, or in some cases, who they are afraid they will become. For example, the show I am currently watching (bingeing on, according to Sam) is Fear the Walking Dead. It's right there in the title. It's useful to know what people fear.

I watch TV in my bedroom not because I wish to be anti-social, despite what Col. Rhodes says, but because I can take notes in peace, without Sam Wilson reading over my shoulder. If I were feeling anti-social I would close the door all the way. And maybe lock it too. With my fancy lock that closes from the inside instead of the outside. Not that it would keep Vision out.

I wish I had locked it when I hear a knock, and then the door swings open before I can answer. I turn my head away from the screen, saying "Vision, you have to wait for a—" and then I break off because it's not Vision standing (or floating, sometimes) there. Captain Rogers is leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, all bulgy muscles and confident body language. Despite myself, I sit up a little straighter. I'll never admit it to anyone, but I'm a bit intimidated by him.

"Captain," I greet him. He has told me to call him Steve, but I can't bring myself to do it. He's in charge, and I suspect that he's the reason I'm here instead of a place with the locks on the outside, so I want to make a good impression.

"What are you doing?" he asks casually.

"I'm learning."

"From that?" He squints at the screen just as someone gets shot in the head. Blood and brain matter go flying, and he recoils in disgust. "What is that?"

"Zombies," I say simply. He has distracted me and I don't know which character just got killed. I have to run it back so I can update my notes.

"Zombies?" he repeats, lip curled. "Like. . . Haitian voodoo?"

"I don't know anything about voodoo. They're just zombies."

"Disgusting. Are you. . . taking notes?" He pushes himself off the doorframe and comes into the room to crane over my shoulder.

"Yes," I say curtly, closing the notebook quickly before he can read my notes. I may have written a few observations about fear and certain members of the team that I don't want him to read. "I have a lot to learn about American culture." I point the remote at the screen to run it back, but he takes it out of my hand and turns the TV off.

"Trust me, it's pointless. You can't learn anything worthwhile from this garbage, I've tried."

I hold out my hand for the remote, but he pulls it back out of my reach. "I have an idea," he says. There is a twinkle in his eye and his lip is quirked up in a playful grin. I like to see him smile because it's so rare, but this makes me nervous.

"What's the idea?" I ask warily.

"You can move things with your mind, right?"

"Sort of. . ." is my careful response. This feels dangerous already.

"Vision says you're coming along nicely in your practice sessions."

"Well," I hedge. "I can throw a pillow without breaking anything." I don't add that the room is padded, so the pillows bounce harmlessly off the walls. My one attempt to throw a book ended with shredded paper flying all around the room.

"Good! How about if you move me?"

I squint at him. "Move you how?"

He stretches his arm out, hand flat and angled upward like an airplane taking off. "Throw me, you know, up high. Places I can't jump to. It'll be like flying."

Now I'm shaking my head. This is a very bad idea. Everything I have practiced with so far as an Avenger has been soft. Unbreakable. Unlike the captain's bones, enhanced as they may be. "I can't do that."

"Wanda, you wanted to be useful. Well, this would be useful." He looms over me, and the hopeful expression on his face reminds me of Pietro, how excited he got on the rare occasions when he was allowed to run. But I have to dash those hopes.

"Captain, I can't control it. Every time I throw something, it gets destroyed. I assume you don't want me to throw you into the wall and break you into pieces."

"You just need practice. You can do this! It'll be aces!"

I give him a blank look. "Aces?"

"Swell," he clarifies, but this does nothing for me either.

"Um. . . cool?"

"Ah."

"So will you do it? Please?" He's practically bouncing on his toes with anticipation.

Every fiber in my body wants desperately to say no, but how can I resist such enthusiasm? Besides, if the Captain thinks I can do it, then maybe I can. I sigh. "Ok."

"Ok? You'll do it?" His face splits in an excited grin.

"I'll try."

His grin widens, and then he says in a goofy voice, "Do or do not; there is no try!"

I have no idea what he is talking about, and my expression must show it, because his smile fades.

"Yoda?" he says, head cocked. "Star Wars?"

When I shake my head with a shrug, he lets out an amused snort. "I finally get a chance to use a movie quote, and you don't even know it."

"What does it mean?"

"Never mind. Six a.m. in practice room 3."

"Six a.m.?!" I say incredulously, but I'm talking to myself because he has already bounded out of the room, calling "Rhodey, hey Rhodey GUESS WHAT?!"

I sigh again as I turn the TV back on. I need to find out who died. Not because I really care about the character, mind you. It's just research.

* * *

I get to practice room 3-one of the smaller rooms, with a high ceiling and padding on the floor and walls-at 6:05 the next morning to find the Captain already there. He's doing windsprints, just to fill the time, I guess. It's not like he needs to work out; he just seems to _like_ it, which is disconcerting. Who actually _likes_ to run? Well, I can think of one person, but I don't want to dwell on that right now. I'm feeling grumpy enough as it is.

He pauses in front of me, hands on his hips and a grin on his face. He's not even winded. Who can be that chipper and energetic at six in the morning?

"Hey, Wanda, I wasn't sure you were going to show up."

"I promised, so I'm here," I reply with a shrug. He's barefoot, wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and suddenly I feel overdressed in my usual boots and jacket. "Maybe I should have worn workout clothes."

He dismisses my concerns with a good-natured shake of his head. "Don't worry about it. Your workout will be mostly mental," he says, tapping his temple. "Just try to move me a little."

"I really don't have that much control," I warn him, but he doesn't seem concerned.

"Come on, just a little."

I take a deep breath. "Fine." Closing my eyes, I reach inside and visualize the doorway that leads to the Chaos. Emotion is what has always unlocked that door and released the magic. Fear. Rage. Grief. But I am afraid to use it on the captain because the effect is too strong. If I fling him with the amount of force I used on the pillows and book, he will end up shredded as well. I will have to see if I can open the door without emotion.

Very carefully, I pull on the handle, but the door stays shut. The second pull also gains me nothing. A bubble of frustration rises in my chest, and the third time the door yields to my hand, opens just a crack. Filaments of bright red light sneak through, sliding like thin, agile snakes. So slippery and fast. I try to catch them and shape them, but they slide through my fingers and are gone. I open my eyes to find the captain watching me expectantly.

"Sorry," I mutter. "I'll try again." I reach inside again, but again the door remains closed until I am frustrated, and then it gives just a crack. The emotions are necessary for the door to open, just as I already thought. I will never be able to access the Chaos when I'm completely calm.

A thin red string of light snakes through and I catch it, shape it into a ball in my hands. Opening my eyes, I aim carefully at the center of his chest.

"Ready?" I ask, but before he can respond, the Chaos escapes my grasp and the red light shoots out. The bolt catches him in the stomach and knocks him backward several meters, where he lands on his backside with a thump.

"I'm sorry!" I cry. "It slipped!"

But he is already on his feet again, eyes sparkling. "Don't apologize. I'm fine. That was great!"

"I don't think you want me to knock you down."

"No, but you were able to move me! We just need to work on control." He stands in front of me again, shoulders squared, knees and elbows bent. "I want to go UP."

"I am aware of the direction you wish to move."

He has that expectant look again, so I close my eyes with a sigh. Concentrate. But not too much, because the harder I concentrate, the further the door opens. Emotion is necessary, but I must control it.

The emotion I feel this time is my old familiar friend anxiety. I must control it, but I am worried I cannot, which creates a positive feedback loop. With my stomach in knots I visualize the door. It swings open a crack and the red filaments slip through. I can feel them racing down my arms and through my fingertips. I catch them, roll them around in my hands.

This time as I release the coiled ball of Chaos, I flick my fingertips upward. The red filaments grab the captain and toss him up into the air almost a meter, like a puppet. Too much! I dial it back, then instinctively use my fear to summon another filament to catch him when he starts to fall. His arms flail awkwardly and he lands with another thump on his hands and knees.

Again he pops up and bounces on the balls of his feet with a huge grin. "You did it!"

I did? I suppose I did, but I don't share his enthusiasm. My anxiety is too thick; I feel like I am being strangled.

"Come on, do it again!" he encourages me. He points to the ceiling. "Higher this time."

"I can throw you higher," I say grimly. "But I have no control. I might slam you into the wall or ceiling."

"I can take it," he replies confidently, hands flung out to the sides. "Bring it on!"

Frustration and anxiety jockey for position on the way to the door this time, and I have no trouble opening it enough to allow the Chaos through. I toss him up into the air, nearly two meters this time. At the apex he lets out a shout—I think he is hurt, but the expression on his face is pure joy.

I shoot another bolt and catch him clumsily, but better this time—he lands on his feet with a cry of triumph. "That was awesome!" he shouts. "Do it again!"

So I do it again, and again, and again, over and over until my jaw aches from grinding my teeth. After nearly twenty throws, I am exhausted, but he is clearly just getting started.

"Let's try for some lateral movement," he exclaims in excitement.

"Lateral. . . movement?" I falter.

"Yeah! Throw me over there!" He flings his arm out exuberantly to his left. Right. Lateral movement. I've done that before, but I've never been worried about where the thing I was throwing landed, or even if it landed. Things have been known to explode, which is why I only use the Chaos on my enemies.

"You can do it, Wanda!" the captain says, eyes shining.

I squeeze my eyes shut and channel my anxiety toward the door, keeping a careful lid on the intensity. The Chaos slides down my arms. I flick my fingers and red ropes shoot out to toss him into the air. A second later I motion to my right; as soon as I let it go I realize it's too much force. His back arches as he is whipped to the side.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath. The next bolt catches his leg and interrupts his momentum, sends him tumbling toward the ground. "Shit shit shit shit. . ."

At the last second he tucks, rolls, and pops up onto his feet with an enormous grin on his face. "Did you see that?!" he cries.

"Yes. I was standing right here," I deadpan.

"That was FUN!"

"I'm glad one of us is having fun," I grumble, but I can't help the little smile that tugs at my mouth. His excitement is contagious.

"Do that again!" he shouts, like an overstimulated toddler.

After five more tosses—up, to the side, catch (or occasionally, miss), repeat—my arms are trembling and my head is pounding, not from the exertion, but from holding back. Finally the captain waves me off just as I'm preparing for another strike.

"Ok, that's enough for today," he says, voice still as perky as ever, even though he has been repeatedly slammed against nearly every surface in the room. I'm annoyed to discover that he still has energy to spare. "That's a great workout. I'm starved! Let's go get some breakfast."

I'm thirsty and almost limp from fatigue, but I wouldn't say I was hungry. In fact I feel faintly nauseated. But I'm not going to say no to taking a break. I nod my consent, too tired to speak, and the captain slaps me on the shoulder (oof!) and leads the way to the stairs, scooping up his hoodie on the way. I dutifully trudge up the steps, which he takes two at a time. At least he's kind enough to wait for me at the top.

In the kitchen I go straight to the coffee pot while he starts in fixing himself "breakfast", which turns out to be five pieces of toast covered in disgusting bright orange cheese. While the cheese is melting in the toaster oven, he pours himself a huge glass of milk and stuffs his hoodie pockets full of granola bars. On the way to the table, he snags an apple and two bananas one-handed from the bowl on the counter, with his plate and glass balanced in the other hand. He has left toast crumbs scattered from one end of the counter to the other, but he doesn't seem to notice. No wonder Natasha always complains about the kitchen being a mess.

I sit and sip my coffee, watching him skeptically while he quickly downs four pieces of toast and an entire banana. He is so focused on the task that he doesn't even look up until he has taken the last bite of the banana, and only then does he seem to notice that I'm not eating anything.

"Oh. . . sorry, do you want a piece of toast?" he asks, pushing the plate my direction. The cheese has solidified into a rubbery bright orange mass with a plasticky sheen on top. I feel my gorge rising.

"No thank you," I say, pushing the plate back to him.

He shrugs and takes a bite of toast. "Banana?" he asks through a full mouth. He holds one out and I take it with a nod of thanks. Fresh fruit still feels like a luxury for me, after years of bland, tasteless rations.

He polishes off the toast in only two more bites, then swallows hard and says, "Need some calories after a workout like that. You should eat some protein."

"For me it was mostly mental," I respond, holding up my cup of coffee.

He chuckles. "Right." He brushes the crumbs from his hands off onto his sweats. "So tomorrow morning let's work some more on that lateral movement."

"I can't control it." My tone is whiny, but I can't help it.

"You can't control it _yet_ ," he chides me gently. "You can learn. Same time, same place."

I groan. "All right."

"That's the spirit! Well, I'm off to watch Sam fly around the gym." He gets up and heads out, leaving his plate on the table. I take my cup to the sink, throw away my banana peel, then look around at the mess and decide it's not my problem. Why should I clean up after him? I'm not his mother.

I hear heels clicking on the stairs. Only one person in this place wears shoes like that, and she's not exactly someone I want to find me standing in the middle of a messy kitchen. I hustle out before she enters. As I quietly sneak up the stairs to my room, I hear Natasha's raised voice. "Argh! Who left this mess?! And what happened to all the milk?!"

* * *

 **Chapter 2 coming soon: Why Captain America hates the cowl**

* * *

 **Author's note** : I kind of did my own take on Scarlet Witch's powers in this story, because the movies don't exactly explain them, and the comics' version is, frankly, convoluted and self-contradictory, according to my "research" (a few google searches—I haven't actually read the comics). If you want to write me a review telling me all the ways I'm wrong, feel free!


	2. Lesson 2: Why the captain hates the cowl

**Flying lessons**

Or: How to throw Captain America through a window, in 10 easy lessons

* * *

 **Summary** : "Ready, Wanda? Just like we practiced."

The Captain has a fantastic idea: Teach Wanda Maximoff AKA the Scarlet Witch AKA The Weird Twin to control her powers so she can throw him to places he can't easily jump to. It'll be just like flying. What can possibly go wrong?

Better buckle up that cowl, Cap, it's going to be a wild ride.

(Set in the interlude between Avengers: Age of Ultron and Captain America: Civil War. No pairings, no slash)

* * *

Lesson 2: Why the captain hates the cowl

* * *

Six a.m. is an insane time for a workout. Only babies and crazy people are up and raring to go at that time. Correction: make that "Babies, crazy people, and Captain Fucking America."

I'm five minutes late again, and again I find him doing windsprints with a casual air. At least this time I've dressed semi-appropriately—shorts, t-shirt, and hoodie, all borrowed from Sam because Natasha's didn't fit and I was too shy to ask Colonel Rhodes. Sam's sweatpants were far too long, so shorts it is.

The captain stops in front of me and looks me up and down with a grin. The clothes are much too big, which makes me feel like a child. I hate to feel like a child. I fold my arms protectively over my chest.

"Shut up," I mutter, and he chuckles.

"Come on, let's get going," he says jovially, rubbing his hands together. "Just up and down a few times to warm up."

Just up and down, he says, like it's the easiest thing in the world. And I suppose for him it is. I'm doing all the heavy lifting; he's just along for the ride.

The dominant emotion I'm feeling right now could be described as "grumpiness," but that's not enough to open the door, so I add in the fact that Natasha yelled at me last night about the mess in the kitchen, and Vision can't seem to get the hang of doors, and it's SIX IN THE MORNING, and channel that grumpiness into a low level buzz of anger. It's enough. The Chaos snakes down my arm much more easily this morning, and I find it less of a chore to toss him up into the air, much to his delight. Catching him on the way back down is always harder, but I manage well enough that he lands on his feet _almost_ every time, and even when he doesn't, it doesn't seem to bother him.

"Ok, you're doing great!" he says after about the tenth toss. "Now for some lateral movement." He gestures with both arms to his left. "Lateral movement."

Patronizing son of a bitch, my anger snarls. I'll show him lateral movement.

I snap the bolt of Chaos out and toss him up a couple of meters, then gesture to the side with my whole hand this time. He accelerates hard, much harder than I had intended. Instead of just a few meters, he zips across the room right into the wall facefirst, so fast that he can't even get his arms up to protect his head.

He bounces off the wall and falls. With fear replacing anger, I wrestle the Chaos to try to catch him, but he hits the ground with a smack.

"Captain!" I cry, running toward him, and he responds with a groan. By the time I reach his side, he has sat up and is rubbing his head ruefully.

I crouch down next to him, afraid to touch. What if I've broken something? What if he decides I'm too dangerous and sends me away to a place with a lock on the outside of the door? What if. . .?!

"I'm fine," he reassures me with a shadow of a grin. "I've got a hard head."

"Let me see," I demand. He obligingly pulls away his hand and lets me look at his face. His cheek is turning purple, but there's little swelling and nothing looks broken. I let out a sigh of relief.

"See, I'm fine. Nothing to worry about." He climbs to his feet and rolls his neck and shoulders. "I'm _fine_ ," he repeats at the look on my face.

"You should wear your helmet," I say with a frown. "This is too dangerous."

"No thanks," he responds dismissively.

"Why not?" I pressure him. Him wearing a helmet would make me a lot more comfortable with this scenario. Knee and elbow pads too. Hell, maybe I can just swaddle him head to toe in bubble wrap. . .

He gives me a sideways look. "You want the truth?"

I scowl at him. "Of course. Why would I want you to lie to me?"

"Ok, fine. It gives me a headache," he admits, hand over his face. The cheek that is unbruised turns a delicate shade of pink. He's obviously embarrassed by this, although I don't understand why.

"It does?" I am perplexed. He has worn that helmet into combat many times and has never mentioned headaches. "Why didn't you say something? Mr. Stark could make you a new one."

"You're joking, right?" he says, shaking his head. "I'd never admit to Tony that I can't handle the helmet."

"Why not?" I ask with deepening confusion. I may still not entirely trust Mr. Stark, but I have witnessed him designing many kinds of new equipment for the team: tweaking Sam's wings, repairing Mr. Barton's bow, and even reconfiguring Colonel Rhodes' boot because it was hurting his ankle. I am sure he would be willing to design a more comfortable helmet for the captain.

"Can you imagine the teasing? He'd never let me live it down."

"You put up with a constant headache because you are afraid of a little teasing?" I ask incredulously.

"It's not a little—" he breaks off. "Never mind. I'm not _afraid_ of it. I just don't _like_ it." He backs up into position and gestures for me to do the same. "And don't let him hear you call him Mr. Stark."

"Why not?" This is the third time I've had to ask that question in this conversation, and I'm getting tired of it, but I am gaining valuable information, information that is important if I want to fit in here. I haven't had a family since I was a child, just Pietro, but already this team feels like family, and I'd like to keep it that way.

"That's his father. If you want to be on his good side, call him Tony."

I'm not sure I want to be on a first name basis with Mr. Stark, but I nod thoughtfully. "Ah, that's helpful. Thank you."

The captain shoots me a sardonic grin. "Why do I think you've probably got a journal where you write down notes about all of us?"

That's actually true, but I'm not inclined to admit it. "What makes you think that?" I say defensively.

He chuckles. "Oh, nothing." He backs up into position, still grinning. "Let's keep going."

We try it several more times. Up, flick to the side, catch, repeat. I'm more cautious now; my anger has mostly dissipated and has been replaced with an uneasy anxiety. Still gets the job done, but it doesn't have quite the same zip. His excitement is undimmed, however.

"Come on, Wanda! Harder!" he shouts at me when I arrest his motion after only a couple of meters. "You can do it."

I curl my lip, because yes, I know I _can_ do it. The hardest part is _not_ doing it so hard I tear him to pieces. But he doesn't seem to get that. He makes me try again and again, until I can get him up, over, and back down on his feet without any significant injuries. Not exactly anything to brag about ("I didn't kill Captain America today!"), but it is progress. He seems satisfied with it, so I try to ignore the fact that my arms are shaking and my eyesight has blurred from exhaustion.

However, when he pops back up onto his feet from my latest attempt and suggests we hit the kitchen for breakfast, I am quick to agree. I might even actually eat something this time, if I think I can keep it down. This workout was a bit more physical than the last, and I feel the need for some calories. Maybe yogurt. Or a nice burek. Wouldn't that be lovely?

He makes himself the same breakfast as yesterday, and even remembers to snag an extra banana for me. I don't get my burek, of course, but I do find a cheese stick hiding in the back of the meat drawer. Protein! I ignore the messy counters and just sit and watch in awe while he makes the mountain of food disappear. Another way he is like Pietro. With his fast metabolism, he was always hungry.

My attention is drawn to the discoloration covering the side of his face. I had thought it was just the cheek, but the purple-black now extends from his hairline to his jaw. That, combined with his mussed-up hair and half-zipped hoodie, makes him look like a naughty schoolboy.

He finally looks up under my scrutiny, and says "What?" while brushing the crumbs away from his mouth. "Do I have something on my face?"

"Yes, an enormous bruise."

That gets me a dismissive shrug. "I've had worse. Don't worry, I heal quick." He takes the last bite of the third piece of toast and starts on the fourth, while I watch the bruise bob up and down as he chews. A bruise that I put there. My fault. Guilt gnaws at me. If I had learned to control my powers properly, Captain Rogers would be fine, my city might not have been destroyed, maybe even Pietro would still be alive. . .

To distract myself from these thoughts, I blurt out, "Have you ever had burek?"

"What's berrick?" he mangles the pronunciation through a mouthful of greasy cheese toast.

"Burek," I correct him, but he doesn't seem to catch on. "It's like a cheese sandwich, but made with phyllo dough."

"What's phyllo dough?"

I raise my eyebrows. How could he not have heard of phyllo dough?! Oh, right, seventy years encased in ice. "Oh, you are missing out," I assure him. "It's sort of like. . . puff pastry."

He swallows and grins. "Sounds good. Do you know how to make it?"

"Sadly, no. But there is a Bulgarian restaurant in town that sells them. I'll get you some the next time I can talk Natasha into taking me there."

"Tell you what, you try cheese toast, and I'll try your berrick."

"Burek."

"Berrick," he dutifully repeats. Still wrong, but I'm not going to correct him again. "I'll take you down there tomorrow morning after practice. Have you ever ridden on a motorcycle?"

I successfully fight the urge to roll my eyes, as I have been riding motorcycles since I was in diapers. Driving them too, probably for more years than he has, but I don't tell him that. I just let my eyes go wide and shake my head.

"It'll be fun. Just gotta lean into the curves. Here." He breaks off a piece of toast and holds it out to me. The cheese is day-glo orange and almost looks like plastic. There's no way that can be right. Maybe he forgot to take the wrapping off?

"What sort of cheese is that?"

"American. It's good."

American cheese. I suppose that's fitting for Captain America. I accept the toast and take a hesitant bite. The cheese sticks to the roof of my mouth, but it doesn't taste as bad as I had feared. But it's no burek. I hold the rest out toward him, but he waves me off.

"Eat it. Good balance of protein and carbs."

I'm not sure he's got that correct, but I don't get a chance to argue, because at that moment Sam comes in, still in his pajamas, and heads straight for the coffee pot. As he passes the captain, he does a double-take.

"What the hell happened to you?"

"Wanda," the captain says. I'm embarrassed, but there is a note of pride in his voice.

Sam locates a clean cup and fills it with coffee. "Oh, yeah? She finally get fed up with getting ordered around all the time?"

"It was an accident!" I protest, but the captain is chuckling.

"Whatever you say," Sam responds, shaking his head as he digs around for a packet of sugar. He is holding up his cup in one hand to avoid setting it down on the crumb-covered counter.

"We're practicing something new," the captain says enthusiastically. "Wanda, tell him!"

Sam quirks an eyebrow at me, so I roll my eyes. "The captain—" I begin, but break off when Sam starts snickering under his breath. "What?"

"Nuclear wessels," he says in an undertone. I have no idea what that means, but the captain starts snickering too.

"I get that! I got that one!" He sounds incredibly pleased with himself.

"Good for you, Cap."

I wait, but neither of them seems in a mood to explain it to me, so I sit and stew. While I wait, I wonder what Sam would think if I suddenly tossed his cup of coffee on his head. I won't do it, but it would feel _so good_.

"I'm sorry, Wanda," Sam says, still grinning. "Go on, please."

"The captain thinks I can learn to control my powers."

"What powers are you trying to control? That mind reading trick? Because that is some wild sh—stuff."

"We haven't started on that one yet. We're working on moving the captain with my mind."

"She can throw me over fifty feet in the air!" the captain interrupts eagerly.

"Not quite that far," I clarify. At least I don't think so. I grew up with metric, not standard, so I'm not sure exactly how far fifty feet is, but it sounds like a large distance.

"Not yet, but we're getting there. You were definitely doing better today than yesterday."

Sam looks impressed. "That's some Harry Potter shit there," he says.

The captain and I both look at him blankly. After a few awkward seconds, the captain says, "Language."

Sam's eyebrows go up in surprise. "Harry Potter? Scar on forehead? Does magic?" He looks back and forth between the two of us. "Nothing?"

"Was he experimented on by Hydra?" I ask.

Sam chokes on a sip of coffee. "No!"

"Then I don't know him," I say flatly.

"He's a fictional character! Come on, neither of you have heard of Harry Potter?"

"No, but I'll put it on the list," the captain promises.

"Ok, but after Die Hard, right? You said you'd watch Die Hard with me and Rhodey."

"I will, I promise." The captain pushes his chair back and stands, leaving his plate, glass, banana peel and apple core behind.

"You might have to plug your ears in a few places," Sam says, slapping the captain on the back. The captain winces, which makes me wonder how hard he actually landed on a few of those falls. "I'll tell you when."

As they start to walk out together, the captain says over his shoulder, "See you tomorrow morning, Wanda. In the main gym this time."

"I'm not cleaning up after you," I call after him.

His voice floats down the stairs, "I didn't ask you to."

With a sigh, I clear up my own small mess, toss the banana peel and cheese wrapper into the trash compactor. I'm washing out my cup when Natasha enters. No heels this time, so I didn't have any warning she was coming. My first indication she is in the kitchen comes when she says "So it _is_ you!" from right behind my ear.

I whirl in shock, hands flying up on their own, strings of Chaos already sliding down to my fingertips. Natasha takes a hasty step back, hands up placatingly.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."

"I didn't make the mess," I say defensively. "Just like I didn't make yesterday's, or the day before. . ."

Natasha folds her arms and fixes me with the eye of death. "But you know who did." The expression on her face almost makes me crack, but I just raise my chin and say nothing, until she finally sighs and rolls her eyes. "Whatever." She opens the fridge, takes out the nearly empty milk carton, and sets it down on the counter with a thump. And that's my cue to exit stage left, before she decides that a bit of torture would get the information out of me.

* * *

A/N: Coming soon, Lesson 3: Captain America gets broken


	3. Lesson 3: Captain America gets broken

**Flying lessons**

Or: How to throw Captain America through a window, in 10 easy lessons

* * *

 **Summary** : "Ready, Wanda? Just like we practiced."

The Captain has a fantastic idea: Teach Wanda Maximoff AKA the Scarlet Witch AKA The Weird Twin to control her powers so she can throw him to places he can't easily jump to. It'll be just like flying. What can possibly go wrong?

Better buckle up that cowl, Cap, it's going to be a wild ride.

(Set in the interlude between Avengers: Age of Ultron and Captain America: Civil War. No pairings, no slash)

* * *

 **Lesson 3: Captain America gets broken (it was an accident, I swear!)**

* * *

I enter the main gym cautiously at 5:53 the next morning. This room is so BIG and those huge glass windows look so fragile. I wonder if the captain would get cut to ribbons sailing through one of them. The thought makes my gut clench with anxiety, so I guess that's the emotion I'm going with again today. It matches the weather outside, where the pre-dawn sky is steel gray and laden with impending rain.

The captain is already there, even though I had hoped to arrive first for once. I don't see him at first, but then I hear, "Hey, Wanda!" When I look up, I spot him standing on one of the elevated walkways that line the walls near the ceiling.

"You're early!" he calls enthusiastically. He sprints to the ladder and slides down, landing with an energetic bounce when he hits the floor. The unpadded floor. Shit. When he comes close enough, I notice that the bruise on his cheek has faded to a sickening bluish-green.

"Why are we in here?" I ask cautiously.

"Well, you were getting pretty good at lateral movement, so I thought we would introduce a target."

"Target? What target?"

"Up there." He points exuberantly at the walkway. "You throw me up there and I'll land on the walkway. Just like flying."

Seriously? He thinks it's that easy? Maybe that easy for him, but not for me. The amount of emotion it would take to summon that much Chaos would take all of my energy, leaving me spent and unable to control the flow. It would be like taking a drink from a firehose, and the captain would be the one getting drenched.

I say none of this, just fold my arms and stare at him impassively, while he looks back at me with an eager puppy grin on his face. I must admit I like that smile, and I especially like it when it's directed at me. Makes me sort of warm and furry inside. Which makes it even harder to summon and control the chaos. I'm going to have to make the smile go away.

"Captain," I say finally, when the silence has dragged on too long. "I don't think it will be as easy as you say."

The smile fades and his lip tightens. "Wanda, you've lifted me up that high before," he responds in a reasonable tone. "It's just adding lateral movement, which we've already practiced. I don't see any reason why you can't do it. You just have to concentrate."

I shake my head vehemently. "Concentrating does. not. help. The more I concentrate, the worse it gets."

"The worse what gets? You're getting better at this!"

"The Chaos!" I shout. "I can't control it!"

His expression softens into something that almost looks like sympathy. I can feel my resolve weaken. "Wanda, you have to learn to control it, and you _can_. I _know_ you can."

"How do you know that?" I challenge him.

"Because you have already come so far. We want you here, Wanda _. I_ want you here. I know you can be a valuable part of the team."

That's what gets me. "I want to be part of the team too," I say softly.

A ghost of the smile returns. "Then let's keep going," He goes to the bench and picks up his cowl and shield, which he holds up almost triumphantly. "See? I'll be properly protected. You won't need to worry."

While he gears up and gets into position, I focus inward. Emotion with control. Just enough fear to open the door, but enough control to close it again. The familiar anxiety bubbles in my belly, and I use it to open the door, just a crack, and pull the crimson threads out. I roll them around in my hands, shaping them. When I let them go, he flies up nearly three meters. Flick to the side—nope, too fast, he's headed right toward the windows. I stop his momentum, haul him back, and catch him before he can hit the ground. When I release him, he lands with a thump and rolls back up to his feet.

"That was good, Wanda, but we need to go up higher. At least another ten feet. Then to the side."

I sigh. "Yes, ok." Closing my eyes, I repeat the process, this time opening the door a little wider. Garden hose, not drinking straw. This time when I let it go, he flies up into the air. I can't tell if it's high enough, but he tucks in, knees pulled up and shield in front of him, so I gesture to the side. He shoots forward, grabs for the walkway, but he can't quite reach it. I have to stop and catch him again. This time when I drop him, he lands on his hands and knees again. I'm disappointed, but he's not.

"Almost there!" he cries as he pops back up to his feet. "I almost had it. Do that again!"

So I try again, a little more, and this time he lands on the walkway, rolls, crashes through the railing, and tumbles off the other side. I am terrified and ready myself to catch him, but he catches himself with one hand, and hangs there by his fingertips, dangling nearly ten meters in the air.

"If I let go, will you catch me?" he calls down.

"I'll try!" I call back, hands at the ready.

He giggles. "Do or do not—"

"All right, I get it! And yes, there _is_ 'try'!"

"Ok, ok. Ready?"

Because of the fear, it's not hard to summon the Chaos this time, harder to control the flow but I manage. I roll the strings around in my hands until I know they won't leap away before I'm ready. "Yes."

"Letting go now." He releases the bar and falls. The bolt shoots from my fingers and grabs him a meter off the ground, knocks him backward where he lands with a grunt on his back. A second later he is on his feet again, pumping his fist with excitement.

"That was the best yet!" he cries. "See, I _knew_ you could do this!"

His enthusiasm is so adorable that I can't help but smile back, mostly with relief. I got him all the way up to the walkway and he didn't break. Maybe I _can_ do this.

"Let's do it again!"

We do it again, and this time, he lands, rolls, and manages to stay on the walkway. His shout of triumph echoes off the windows and hard walls, and I find myself whooping too. He slides down the ladder and grabs me in a hug, which startles me. Before I have time to react, he pounds me on the shoulder (ouch!), steps back and orders, "Again!"

An irrepressible grin tugs at my lips. I feel a bubble of something unfamiliar break loose in my chest, something I haven't felt for a very long time.

 _Joy_.

I'm _happy_ , actually happy, for the first time since—well, I'm not sure when. Since before Pietro died, at least. Maybe since before the bomb fell on my house and killed almost everything and everyone I loved. It's so foreign and alien that I almost don't know what to do with it. But I have to admit that I _like_ it.

Will joy work to open the door? I have no idea, but it's worth a try. I reach inside and try the door, and this time it opens easily. The strings of Chaos leap out like eager children. I don't even have to work for it—they slide down my fingers and flick out to lift the captain effortlessly, toss him in a smooth arc up on to the walkway, where he lands in a perfect three-point landing. It's epic!

"Yes!" he shouts on his way back down the ladder. "Yes, yes, YES! Again!"

This is fantastic! Why did I never try joy before? It works better by far than any other emotion. And I actually like it! The captain was right, I _can_ do this!

The strings slide down my fingers almost on their own this time, with no effort from me. I'm ready before he even gets into position, and when I let it fly, he shoots up like a cannonball. He gets the shield in front of him in time to land on the walkway and roll to his feet with a hop.

"Pow!" he shouts. "Bad guys down!" Then he leans over the edge and calls "I'm gonna jump down. Catch me!" He does an acrobatic leap over the railing and launches himself toward the floor. With a flick of my fingers I snap the bolt of Chaos out and catch him, but instead of lowering him to the floor, I toss him upward again, where he does a flip in the air with a shout of triumph.

The red strings have grown into a thick rope now, dancing and sparkling with a life of their own, and I'm laughing and almost dancing too, and it's marvelous and perfect and FUN! This, I think feverishly, this is what I was made to do.

The captain plummets toward the earth again, and again I toss him up into the air with a cackle of laughter. "Hey, Wanda," he calls, but the voice sounds very far away and so unimportant compared to the aura of excitement surrounding me that I ignore him. The only thought that remotely registers is MORE! MORE!

The door stands open now, and why shouldn't it? The Chaos that streams out unimpeded is my friend! It has always been my friend! It makes me _powerful_! Why did I spend so many years trying to control it? There was never anything to fear.

As more tendrils of red light charge through and slide down my fingers, the rope expands further, the strings coiling around each other like beautiful snakes, each racing out joyfully to grab the captain and toss him into the air again, like a toy, higher and higher.

"Wanda!" the captain shouts again, a little louder this time, and suddenly something in his voice breaks through the joy: _fear_. He is afraid.

But why would he be afraid? I'm in perfect control, of everything. It's what he wanted, isn't it? I just have to show him what I can do and everything will be wonderful. I just have to show him.

Faster than conscious thought, the Chaos responds by throwing him up even higher, almost to the ceiling, before tossing him to the side playfully. He tumbles with his knees tucked up and arms pulled in tightly with the shield over his head. I catch a glimpse of his flexed bicep. His eyes are squeezed shut and his mouth is pulled back in a grimace, not a grin.

 _Oh._

The bubble of joy surrounding me pops and suddenly I'm lost. I try to reel in the bright red rope, but it won't obey me and instead tosses him upward again, much too hard—he's going to hit the ceiling and there's no way for me to slow him down. Far from powerful, I am completely powerless to stop it. The Chaos has become a firehose, far beyond my ability to control.

The captain holds up his shield and curls his body under it before he slams into the ceiling, and then he is falling at an alarming rate. With a cold hand of terror clenching my throat, I fling out a bolt to catch him, much too hard. The uncontrolled Chaos instead accelerates him into the floor, where he lies crumpled and unmoving.

"CAPTAIN!" I scream. I sprint toward him, terrified. My fingers are still crackling and webbed with red ropes. I ball them into fists to keep the energy from lashing out again and perhaps destroying something else. My only thought is _I broke him I broke him I broke him._ . .

By the time I reach his side, he is making sort of a crackly, keening noise in his throat. His right leg—oh God, his leg!—lies at an awkward angle, a jagged end of broken thigh bone visible through the ripped fabric of his sweats, with blood pooling rapidly underneath.

"Lie still," I command him in a tremulous voice when he shifts to look at me through heavy-lidded, bloodshot eyes. Blood trickles from his nose and mouth. He twists, hands reaching down to grab for his injured leg. "Don't touch it. Please, Captain, you must lie still!" I put my hand firmly on his shoulder to try to keep him down.

"I'm all right," he tries to reassure me, but the way his voice cracks is anything but reassuring.

"No, you're not! The bone is sticking through the skin!"

He lifts up onto his elbows to try to see, and promptly gags, turns his head away from me, and vomits bile and water onto the floor.

"Yeah, ok," he groans, eyes screwed shut and face contorted in pain. "Maybe it's. . . worse than I thought."

"What should I do?!"

His only response is a soft moaning sound. The pool of blood under his leg has expanded at an alarming rate. If I don't do something quickly, he's going to bleed out right in front of me, super-serum or no super-serum.

"FRIDAY!" I screech. "FRIDAY!"

"Yes, Wanda?" the implacable voice of the computer responds. Oh, thank heavens.

"We need an ambulance. And get Sam down here now!" Sam has medical training. He'll know what to do.

"Yes, Ma'am," FRIDAY says in the same even tone. I try to channel some of that calm for my own use, but it's not working very well. Inside my head I am holding the door firmly closed, but my fingers still tingle as I hesitantly hover them over the captain's leg. I'm going to have to put pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding, and I know it's going to hurt like hell.

Do it already, I tell myself sternly. What the worst that can happen? The worst that can happen has already happened. I broke Captain Rogers. Everything else is just icing on the cake.

I lay my hands tentatively against the open wound, which causes him to gasp and squirm. I can't hold him still; he's too strong. "Captain, please—" I whimper. "Please. . ." Please what? Don't bleed all over the floor? Don't be in pain? Don't be broken because of something I did? His hand, smeared with blood, comes up, catches a fistful of the front of my borrowed t-shirt, and twists the fabric in his fingers.

Suddenly I hear the clatter of approaching footsteps, and then Sam is there, kneeling beside me with a grim expression on his face. "What the hell—never mind. Cap, lie still. Wanda, I got it." He presses his dark hands against the wound, and the captain cries out in pain, back arching and left foot pushing and sliding against the floor. He disentangles his fist from my shirt, leaving a red smear behind, and bats at Sam's hands, but Sam blocks him with his arm and shoulder. Bright red blood oozes through Sam's fingers to join the growing pool.

"Captain—Steve—Put your hands down, buddy. I gotta put pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding," Sam says gently, like he's talking to a child, and the captain responds by balling his hands into fists and pounding the floor with a growl.

I move up to the captain's head and whisper, "I'm so sorry, Captain," but I'm not sure he hears me. Beads of sweat trickle out from under his helmet and slide down the side of his face. His head moves back and forth, lips working but nothing is coming out. Then he is reaching up with one blood-smeared hand to push weakly at the cowl.

"You want this off?"

He makes a noise that could be assent, so I tug the helmet off him, to reveal his sweat-soaked hair and bruised face—not just the bluish-green mark that had been there before, but several new ones: purple-black along his jaw and across his nose.

I hear Natasha's heels clicking on the hard floor, moving fast, and then she hits her knees on the captain's other side, deftly avoiding the puddle of vomit, and lays her hand on his head to gently smooth back his sweat-dampened hair.

"Hey, Cap, you're gonna be all right, ok?" she says quietly. "Gonna be all right. Paramedics are coming."

"Tasha?" His voice has faded to a ragged whisper. ". . . Hurts." His trembling hand comes up and Natasha grabs it and squeezes, ignoring the blood.

"I know, honey. I'm so sorry."

Finally I hear the wail of a siren and Friday announces the arrival of the paramedics. It's only been a few minutes, but it feels like much longer, every second measured in blood volume and the captain's ragged, agonized breathing. Natasha keeps stroking his hair and whispering to him—I can't hear what she's saying, but it does seem to help because, although he is still making little moaning noises, he is no longer writhing in pain.

The paramedics come in at a run, and then he's surrounded by a hubbub of activity, voices calling out numbers and words that I have no reference for, don't know if they mean he is going to live or die. One of the blue-shirted paramedics, a woman with dark hair pulled back into a severe bun, elbows me out of the way without even looking at me. I stumble back, trembling, and am caught by Vision, who wraps strong arms around my shaking shoulders. He is solid and real and I sink into his strength, letting him support almost all of my weight while I watch them work. The whole scene is stained with swirls of red that match the puddle on the floor. The color of blood. The color of Chaos.

One paramedic brings up a wheeled gurney next to the captain, lowers it to the floor, and when they all line up to move him, I catch a glimpse of his profile in the gap between two blue shirts: eyes tightly closed, mouth open in a silent scream, blood and tear-tracks streaking down the side of his face. _Please don't die_ , I want to shout, but my throat is clogged with tears that haven't made their way to my eyes yet, so I just cling to Vision like a lifeline. The captain can't die, can he?

A man's voice cuts through the noise, "Ready on one-two-THREE" and then they all lift together. The captain screams and squirms as his leg is jostled. The woman with the bun slides the gurney under him. When they lower him onto it, none-too-gently, he cries out again and then goes limp, head lolling to the side, face slack. His arm hangs off the side of the gurney until the woman grabs it and tucks it in next to his side with a firm, efficient motion.

Her hand goes to his neck and we all wait for one breathless second, then two, then three before she announces, "Pulse is fast but steady. Let's go," and they all take off at a fast walk, leaving a trail of quarter-sized drops of blood, toward the outer doors where the ambulance waits on the wet tarmac. Sam goes with them, helping to push the gurney, and so does Natasha, who is still holding the captain's unresponsive hand. None of them look back before the double doors close behind them with a solid thunk.

As soon as they are gone, I push Vision away and hit my knees with my hands tangled in my hair. I pull hard on my hair, hard enough to hurt, just to feel the pain. It's only right that I be in pain too, after what I did to him. The tendrils of Chaos trail from my fingers and curl around my head.

"Wanda," comes Vision's reasonable voice. "Are you all right?"

"NO!" I scream. "NOOOOO!" My voice rises in volume and intensity until I am shrieking at the top of my lungs. I can feel the energy building up inside me, higher and higher, until my hands shoot out and the Chaos explodes outward through my outstretched fingertips. The window in front of me wavers, then shatters. Slivers of glass rain down around me, but they don't reach me because Vision is suddenly hovering over me with the captain's abandoned shield held up as a protective barrier.

"Vision," I whisper, voice breaking. "Oh, Vision, what did I do?"

"I am sorry, Wanda." The shards of glass now lie all around us, a glittery minefield dotted with raindrops. Vision drops the blood-stained shield and kneels next to me, pulls me into his arms. His hand, firm and warm, slides over my hair, just like my father used to do before everything changed. I push my face in hard against his chest and sob like a child.

* * *

A/N: Coming soon, Lesson 3 cont: Bye bye burek


	4. Lesson 3, cont: No MMA with a broken leg

**Flying lessons**

Or: How to throw Captain America through a window, in 10 easy lessons

* * *

Lesson 3 continued: No MMA with a broken leg

* * *

A half hour later I am sitting in the kitchen with a blanket wrapped around me, drinking a cup of kamilica tea at the round table. I have not changed my shirt, even though it is stained with the captain's blood.

Vision sits with me, although he doesn't drink tea or, well, _anything_. He has been prattling away awkwardly for at least the past twenty minutes about everything and nothing, while I just sit silently and let him talk. At least he doesn't demand anything from me, no questions or pointed comments, which is good because if I try to talk, I'm likely to start crying again. I'm sure neither of us wants that.

Vision's endless stream of chatter does little to distract me from my thoughts, however, which are dark and stormy like the weather outside. Guilt, anger, grief, pain, all chase each other around and around in my skull. It is taking a superhuman effort to keep them from opening the door and releasing the Chaos to destroy everything.

I'm suddenly startled by my phone ringing. I didn't even remember that I had put it in the pocket of my borrowed shorts. To my recollection it has never rung before, which is fine with me. I rarely leave the compound, and everyone I care about is here anyway.

I throw off the blanket and take my phone out to see "Romanov, Natasha" flash across the screen. If Natasha is calling me, maybe she has an update on the captain. With shaking fingers, I press buttons until I find the one that will answer the call.

"Hello?" I say in a tremulous voice. Vision puts down his (empty) cup that he has been using to pretend to have tea with me, and leans in closer to quite obviously eavesdrop.

"Where the hell are you?" Natasha barks without preamble.

Flustered, I stutter out a reply, "I'm—I'm at the compound."

"Why aren't you at the hospital? Steve came to in the ambulance and was asking where you were. I told him you were coming."

"You all left without me. I thought I would be in the way. . ."

"Ask Rhodey to drive you. What the hell have you two been doing, anyway?"

"It was. . . training exercises," I breathe.

"Yeah? Well, they've been asking me a bunch of awkward questions about why his ribs are broken and he's covered in all different shades of bruises."

My hand flies over my mouth. Broken ribs? _Covered_ in bruises?! "It was his idea!" I choke out.

"His idea to do what?!"

"He was trying to teach me how to throw him up into the air."

"Seriously?" I hear Natasha sigh. "Yeah, that sounds like the kind of idiotic thing he would come up with. God, almost a hundred years old and he's still making stupid kid decisions."

"I'm so sorry. . . " I say lamely, which is all I can come up with at the moment. I'm sorry I went along with it. I'm sorry I lost control. I'm sorry I hurt him. I'm sorry I'm going to end up out in the cold now, or worse.

"Yeah, well, I told them he's into MMA. May be enough to keep the police from coming around the compound asking more questions."

I don't ask her what MMA is. I may not know Natasha very well, but I know she doesn't respond kindly to stupid questions like that.

"Oh, and I may have told a nurse to go fuck herself."

"Will he be all right?" I ask hesitantly. I'm afraid to hear the answer.

"Compound fracture of the right femur. They've got the bleeding stopped and they're prepping him for surgery, which is going to be a bitch."

"Why?" Surgery sounds like a good thing, necessary to set his leg. Better than what Pietro got after he broke his arm when a Stark bomb destroyed our house. No fancy cast or a sling or even an aspirin. I just had to lie there and listen to him cry all night in pain. It never healed properly after that.

"He metabolizes the anesthetic so fast it's hard to keep him under. When he got shot, he kept waking up on the table screaming and crying for Bucky."

"Bucky, his friend?"

"Yeah, best friend slash platonic _we think_ life partner slash unstoppable killing machine who shot him and left him for dead."

"Oh. He never told me that part." I had just heard the fun stories, about him and Bucky hiding out behind the barn attempting to smoke cigarettes until they threw up, or going out on double-dates that always ended with both girls hanging on Bucky.

"Anyway," Natasha continues. "They finally had to give him a massive dose, so much they thought he might never wake up. Only good part is I don't think he really remembers it.

"I told the doctors here about that, but I don't know if they really believed me. I hope they'll figure it out before he wakes up on the table and starts fighting them. God, I hope that doesn't happen this time."

"Oh god. . . " I choke back a sob.

"Oh, stop sniveling; he's going to live. He wants to talk to you, Maximoff. Better get your witchy little butt down here."

My heart sinks. "Now?" I had hoped for at least a few more hours before I was informed I would have to leave the compound for good.

"No hurry. He'll be in surgery for the next couple of hours. Oh, and Maximoff?"

"Yes?"

"He said you owe him some 'berrick'?"

"Burek," I correct her automatically.

"I know that," she says, and I can hear the eye-roll in her tone. "But apparently he doesn't."

* * *

Colonel Rhodes drives me to the hospital in an enormous truck with tires that are nearly as tall as I am. I almost have to ask him for a boost into the passenger seat, but at the last minute I notice a step hiding under the running board and manage to hoist myself aboard. The engine is loud, so he doesn't say much on the drive. I have to shout over the noise to give him directions to the Hungarian restaurant, Kafana, on a narrow back street. I tell him I don't mind if he waits in the truck out of the rain that is still pounding down, but he parks and accompanies me past the ragged homeless men lounging under the tattered red and green awning. I have been here alone several times and never worried, but the colonel's body language is alert and watchful. When he holds the door for me, he makes me duck under his arm and follows me inside, where the interior is unexpectedly brightly lit and cheerful.

I order three pieces of burek and make small talk in Sokovian with the elderly man behind the counter while he wraps it up. He calls me "dragi", which reminds me of my grandmother. This man, this place, these foods, are some of the few things I have found in this foreign place that bring back happy memories from my homeland.

When we get back to the truck, I present one of the pieces of burek to Colonel Rhodes, and he flashes me a delighted grin. I think I have actually surprised him, which surprises me. Why wouldn't I include him? He says, "Thanks, Wanda. I'll eat it later," and sets the bag down next to his leg while he starts the truck up with a clatter.

Then we are on the way to the hospital, where I will most likely hear that I have been dismissed from the Avengers. I am sure the captain will decide it is too dangerous for me to stay, and he will be right. On their own, my hands twist the top of the bag of burek until the white paper goes wrinkly and soft under my fingers. The world is red around the edges, but I keep a tight lid on the Chaos. Don't go near the door. Let nothing out lest I damage something or someone else.

Colonel Rhodes doesn't say anything on the rest of the ride, but he keeps shooting me concerned glances. After he has turned off the engine in the hospital parking garage, he finally turns to me. "Wanda," he says gently. "I don't think the captain will blame you for what happened."

I keep my gaze locked on the bag to hide the tears which are standing in my eyes. "Do you know what happened?" I ask tentatively.

"Yes, Natasha called me. It's really not your fault. That boy is desperate to fly. He and Tony are in some sort of pissing contest over it. Tony offered to carry him once and they almost ended up in a fistfight."

"He lets Sam carry him."

"Sam doesn't rub it in. Anyway, you don't need to worry. He knows it's not your fault."

I sniffle and unbuckle my seatbelt. "Thank you, Colonel Rhodes," I say in as confident a voice as I can muster. "That's very kind of you." I open my door and climb down, and he follows suit.

"No, I mean it. You're going to be fine."

He's being very kind to me, but I'm sure he's wrong. Anyway, the only person who can make that call is the captain, and at this point I've given him so much pain that he would probably like me to go straight to hell.

On the way in the door, I get a text from Natasha that the captain is out of surgery, but he's still unconscious.

 _Did he wake up on the operating table?_ I have to ask.

 **Yes** , is the only response. No explanation or details.

I clutch the bag on the way up the elevator, and when we get out, Colonel Rhodes puts a comforting arm around my shoulders to lead me down the hall. "It's going to be all right, Wanda," he says quietly.

We find Natasha and Sam sitting in plastic chairs with their feet up on the captain's bed, their faces buried in their phones. As soon as we enter, before we even have a chance to greet them, Natasha is up pulling on her jacket. "Oh good there you are should be waking up soon he'll be in a shitload of pain okthanksbye," she says all in a rush while she shoves her arms through the sleeves and gathers up her shoes.

She scoots out the door, leaving me blinking after her in confusion. Sam also stands, stretches, and heads toward the door. "Sorry, Wanda, I gotta go back with Rhodey. You'll be fine, right?"

He doesn't give me a chance to answer, just claps Colonel Rhodes on the back and pushes him out the door. "It's ok, Wanda," Rhodes calls back over his shoulder. "I'll come back for you in a few hours. Just relax." Wait, they aren't going to all leave me alone here, are they? Yes, they are.

Rhodes closes the door behind them, leaving me alone with the unconscious captain, who will wake up in "a shitload of pain" any minute because of what _I_ did to him. And then probably immediately order me out of the compound, either onto the street, or more likely, straight to jail.

I step up next to the bed and look him over. His elevated leg makes a misshapen, oversized lump under the blanket. His arms lie at his sides on top of the blanket, fingers slightly curled. His forearms are covered in dark bruises.

Steeling myself, I lift my gaze to inspect his sleeping face. Someone has cleaned him up, because the blood is gone from under his nose and around his mouth, but that only makes the injuries more obvious. Both of his closed eyes are blackened like a raccoon, with a purplish smear across the bridge of his nose, and his lower lip is split and swollen. I'm sure he didn't hit his face when he landed, so these injuries must be from the impact with his shield when he crashed into the ceiling.

Natasha said "covered in bruises," which means he has more hiding under the gown and blanket, and "multicolored", which means he didn't get all of them today. I've been basically beating the shit out of him for three days now, and he never told me.

My gaze drifts upward, to where a lock of golden hair has fallen down over his forehead. It softens his face and makes him look very young. Vulnerable. I don't want him to look vulnerable. Captain America has to be strong. The rest of us will never hold together without him.

I reach out a tentative hand and gently brush back the lock of hair, and of course at that moment, he wakes up. When his eyes flicker open, I yank my hand back as if it has been burned. _I wasn't touching you. I don't know what you're talking about._

He glances around the room, almost frantically for a second, but then he spots me, and his swollen lip curves up into a lopsided smile. "Hey, Wanda," he says in a soft voice, not angry as I was expecting. Not angry. Happy to see me. Oh, god.

I burst into tears, much to my horror.

While I am sobbing and sniffling, I can see through my tears that his smile has morphed into an expression of consternation. He looks around anxiously, as if hoping someone will come in and tell him what to do. But I can't stop weeping. I could have killed him! I almost _did_ kill him! And he's **not mad at me**.

Finally he says "Hey—hey, don't cry. I'm going to be ok. See, I'm fine." He reaches down to pat his leg, and then gives an involuntary gasp of pain. He's not fine, and no amount of reassurances will convince me of that. My tears intensify.

"Wanda, look at me."

I sniffle and try to look, but all I can see are the bruises. "I'm so sorry. . ." I wail.

"Look at me. I'm ok, all right? Or I will be. It was an accident; I know that. I'll be ok. Please, just . . .stop crying." When I continue to blubber, his eyebrows pull in, and I see his jaw twitching from gnawing on the inside of his lower lip. "Please."

I push back my hair and wipe my face on my sleeve. I'm upsetting him more by crying. He's not ok, but he's not kicking me out either, so that's something, I tell myself firmly. Pull it together, Maximoff.

"Good, ok," His relieved expression when I finally get my emotions under control is almost comical. "That's better. See, everything's all right. Yeah. Ok?"

I don't trust myself to speak, so I just nod weakly.

He shifts on the bed, winces, and then says, "Does this bed sit up? I think they sit up sometimes."

"Um. . . are you supposed to sit up?"

"Yeah. Why not? It would be more comfortable."

I wipe away the last of my tears and start looking around on the bed for the controls, finally find them on the inside of the bedrail. I point the buttons out to him and let him raise the head of the bed himself. He cries out sharply when the bed jolts as it starts moving.

"Sorry sorry sorry!" I cry. "Are you all right? Do you want to stop?"

"No, I'm ok," he grunts through gritted teeth. A thin layer of sweat has appeared on his upper lip, but he doesn't stop until the bed is sitting about halfway up. Then he shifts his leg just a little, grimacing with every movement, in what looks like a vain attempt to get comfortable.

"Captain, I don't think—"

"I'll be ok. Man, I'm starving. I never got any breakfast. I wonder when they're gonna feed me?"

Oh! The burek! "I brought you something," I say hastily, opening the bag. He watches me with a hopeful expression. When I pull out the piece of burek, the lopsided grin reappears.

"Aces, thanks!" He holds out his hand expectantly.

"Are you sure you're allowed to eat?"

"Yes, I can eat. Why couldn't I eat?" His voice has a note of defensiveness in it.

I shrug and hand over the burek. I'm not going to say no to a man who just forgave me for breaking him.

I fish my burek and a couple of napkins out of the bag, but by the time I look up to hand him one, I find him licking his fingers. All that is left of his piece of burek are a few crumbs scattered on the blanket, and he is looking hungrily at mine.

"That berrick is pretty good."

"Oh. Here." I hand the other piece over as well, just to see him smile, and I'm rewarded with another crooked grin. I find myself smiling in return.

He takes an enormous bite, and while he is chewing, says thoughtfully, "I've been thinking about our next session."

"Next. . . session?" I respond faintly. "You want to keep trying this?"

He swallows thickly. "Yes, don't you?" Another enormous bite. Half of the burek ( _my_ lovely burek) is gone now. "It was going great before this happened."

"I lost control."

"So you'll learn from it and keep trying." The rest of the burek disappears into his mouth. "Got any more of that?"

I shake my head and hold up the empty bag. "You just don't give up, do you?"

He smirks at me. "Never backed down from a fight before, not planning to now. I was thinking, they'll probably let me out of here tomorrow, but I won't be ready to start practicing again for a while, at least a week or so—"

"Longer than that, surely."

"I told you, I heal fast. Anyway, I can set you up with some inanimate objects to throw around, get some more practice. And then when I'm healed up enough to try again, you'll be ready."

"I've already tried with pillows," I say dubiously.

"We'll try something else. I'll have Vision set it up. Ok?"

"Yes, ok," I respond, because he sounds so confident. At least practicing with inanimate objects won't break anyone's leg. Unless it's bricks or rocks or something. . . My train of thought derails when I look back at his face. He's got his hand over his stomach and he's gone a bit green around the edges. "What's wrong?"

"I think maybe I ate that too fast." His other hand goes up over his mouth. His eyes that peek over the top of his hand are wide with panic.

"Oh, shit," I mumble, looking around for something for him to throw up into. I'm expecting him to respond "Language", but he's too busy trying to keep his stomach contents on the inside. Finally I grab the nearest trash can and hold it up for him, just in time for him to vomit up all of his breakfast. Bye bye burek.

He finishes retching, but I don't pull the trash can away immediately because I'm distracted by the view down the back of his partially open gown—his entire back is mottled with bruises, shading from black, through blue and green, to yellow-brown. No wonder the nurses were asking questions.

Finally he pushes the trash can away and sinks back down against the pillows. "Better?" I ask, and he just nods weakly in response. His hair is damp and his whole pale face is covered with a sheen of sweat.

At that moment a petite nurse with bright orange hair bustles in on squeaky crepe-soled shoes. "Captain Rogers!" she exclaims. "You're not supposed to be sitting up!"

I just step back with my eyebrows raised while she lowers the bed. He is studiously avoiding eye contact. Or maybe he's in too much pain to do anything but stare intently at the wall like he's trying to burn a hole in it.

"You're supposed to keep your leg elevated," she scolds, briskly tucking the blankets in around him. "Keep the swelling down."

"It _is_ elevated," he mumbles.

"Above your heart, dear, which means you have to lie flat. And no MMA either."

He looks mystified, but before he can say anything, I break in with, "Oh, no, absolutely no MMA. That MMA thing is right out. You can't MMA with a broken leg."

". . .Umm. . ." He narrows his eyes and cuts his gaze to me, but I just give my head a small shake.

The nurse gives him a look over her glasses. "Unless there's something else you'd like to tell me."

The captain looks mystified. ". . .No. . ."

"Something that would explain why you woke up on the operating table crying and yelling 'Stop! Stop!'?"

"I did?!"

"Mmhmm" The nurse flashes "the look" at me. I feel the sweat trickling down my back. Don't sink into the chair, I tell myself sternly. Sit up and look innocent.

Her eyes narrow suspiciously, then she purses her lips and makes a noise through her nose. With one last glance at me, she turns back to the captain and whips out a thermometer, which she runs across his sweaty forehead with a quick, efficient movement. "99.6. Have to keep my eye on that." She scrutinizes the monitor, writes something on the clipboard hanging on the end of the bed, and then glances around the room. "Were you _eating_?" she asks in an aggrieved voice.

He has the decency to sound embarrassed. "Just a little bit."

"You're not supposed to be eating solid food today."

"I was hungry."

"And you threw it up, didn't you?"

". . . Maybe."

"No food today," she says in a firm voice. "If you can keep down clear fluids, we'll try applesauce tomorrow. How about some juice?"

"Ok, orange juice."

"Nuh-uh. Clear fluids only."

"Milk?"

She snorts. "I'll bring you some apple juice," she said flatly, and bustles out without waiting for answer. I'm left with a Captain America who is, quite simply, pouting. With an enormous effort I resist the urge to say _I told you so_.

"What's MMA?" he asks with a grumpy frown.

"I have no idea, but Natasha told them you were doing that to explain the bruises. I don't think they would believe the truth even if we told them."

"Probably not."

"You don't remember waking up during surgery?"

He scowls. "No."

We shut up then because the nurse has come back with a cup of juice with a straw sticking out of it. She sets it on the tray with a warning to "just take sips" and bustles out again. As soon as she's gone, he lifts his head and shoulders, grabs the juice, yanks out the straw, and downs the whole cupful in one long drink.

"Oh," I start. "I don't think you should—". But he has already thunked the empty cup back down onto the tray, so I finish with "Never mind." I sink back into my seat with a sigh. The captain is a terrible patient.

"I hope they let me go home tomorrow," he says wistfully. Home. Yes, home sounds nice. Home with my cozy bed and the door that locks from the inside.

And then I ask myself, _when did I start thinking of the compound as home?_

* * *

I get back to my room that evening, exhausted, to find a new set of clothes laid out carefully on my bed: a red t-shirt in a very soft fabric, with a stylized A on the front, and a pair of black sweatpants. When I try them on, I discover they are extremely comfortable and fit perfectly. I suspect they are a gift from Vision, because it seems like the sort of thoughtful thing he would do. Somehow he always knows exactly what will make me feel better.

After showering to get the traces of the captain's blood off my skin, I decide to wear my new clothes to bed.

* * *

A/N: Coming soon, Lessons 4-7: Teddy gets his


	5. Lessons 4-7: Teddy gets his

**Flying lessons**

Or: How to throw Captain America through a window, in 10 easy lessons

* * *

 **Chapter 5: Teddy gets his (but don't hurt the little captain)**

* * *

They don't let the captain out of the hospital the next day, or the one after that either. We all take turns sitting on that hard plastic chair, because, as Natasha puts it, with a grim expression on her face, "We don't let Steve wake up in the hospital alone." I'm not sure why, but I do know that every time he wakes up, he looks around frantically until he sees a familiar face, and then he tries to pretend he wasn't worried.

Even Mr. Stark—Tony—swaggers in on day two to take a turn in the chair. "I'm just here to watch the nurses put our dear captain in his place," he cracks. "I hear that one with the orange hair had him blubbering into his Jello this morning." I'm ready to strangle him, but while Natasha pulls me out, his expression softens. As the door closes, I see him sit down in the chair, rest his feet on the edge of the bed against the sleeping captain's good leg, and pull out a paperback book.

When I come back later that evening, Tony is asleep in the chair with the book open on his chest and his glasses falling off his nose. He has changed the captain's name and information on the little whiteboard over his bed. Now it reads "CAPSICLE SPANGLES" in a block-letter scrawl; his weight is listed as "98 LB WEAKLING", birthdate as July 4, 2012 (not that it was accurate before), and Tony has drawn a little caricature of the captain underneath: very skinny with buck teeth and huge ears, struggling to hold a shield that is nearly as big as he is. It doesn't seem fair to kick a man while he's down, so I scowl and erase it.

* * *

When the captain finally comes home ( _home_!) on day three, it's with a bulky cast from hip to ankle and instructions to be non-weightbearing for at least another two days, which means a wheelchair. This does not go over well for a hyperactive ex-soldier/superhero type. In fact, I'd say he resents it, judging by how short-tempered he is with all of us. Sam and Natasha's bickering drives him to shouting and (even worse) angry silence. He even snaps at Vision for "being too precise", although Vision doesn't seem to understand what he's doing wrong.

* * *

 **Lesson 4**

Vision sets me up with practice sessions in the main gym for 6 am the day after the captain comes home, but I change it to 9 am without consulting him. Much more reasonable, and since I'll be practicing by myself, I figure I can set the time how I want. I take my time putting on my new outfit, marveling at how comfortable it is and how it perfectly stretches with my movements.

I'm expecting pillows again, but when I enter the gym I don't see any pillows scattered around. Instead, there is a large cardboard box in the middle of the room, and sitting on top of it is a small, brown teddy bear. Vision is seated on the floor next to the box with his legs folded criss-cross and his hands resting comfortably on his knees.

"Ah, Wanda," he says, instantly coming to his feet with a cat-like grace that I can appreciate.

"Oh, I didn't know you were going to be here. Have you been waiting long?"

"Three hours, two minutes and forty-eight seconds," he replies with his usual precision. The captain's chewing out doesn't seem to have changed that at all.

"I'm sorry! I changed the time since the captain wasn't going to be here. I forgot you wouldn't know the new time."

"It is not a bother, Wanda. I see I have correctly ascertained your. . . dimensions."

My dimensions? Oh! "Yes, it fits perfectly. Thanks."

He seems content with my response. "Shall we begin? The captain would like you to practice throwing the bear to the walkway."

So the bear was the captain's idea? Interesting. It seems more like something Vision would come up with. He's remarkably sentimental for what is essentially a walking, talking computer.

So I try. I really try, but I'm too anxious, which makes it difficult to the point of impossibility to control the flow and direction of the Chaos. After only about five minutes, the bear is missing an arm, and stuffing is trailing out of a rip in its belly. I'm discouraged, but Vision just pulls another teddy bear out of the box and tells me pleasantly to try again.

I go through three teddy bears in the first session. All are in pieces before I finally insist it's time for a break. If I left it up to Vision, we would probably keep going all day. He never gets tired, or hungry, or needs a bathroom break. Or prefers to watch the next episode of Fear the Walking Dead in peace goddammit (don't judge me—I need to know what happens to Liza).

* * *

 **Lesson 5**

The next morning the captain is inordinately pleased to be allowed to trade the wheelchair in for crutches, although he is still under orders to keep his weight off his leg. The doctors seem surprised that the break is healing so quickly, but it can't be fast enough for him.

When I get to the gym after breakfast, ten new teddy bears have appeared all lined up in a row on the box. I make short work of them while Vision watches and gives "helpful" pointers. Every time he tries to speak, I throw an exploding teddy bear at him, and after the fourth one he gets the hint and lapses into silence.

Soon the floor is covered with stuffing and bits of teddy bear fur, like a scene from the world's most adorable massacre. Just after the ninth bear explodes, the door opens and the captain hobbles in on crutches.

"How's it going?" he asks blithely.

"What do you think?" I snap back.

He looks around and I see him wilt a little. "Oh," he says finally. "Um. . . never mind. Keep practicing!" He turns around and limps out again with a wave over his shoulder.

In frustration, I snap the lines of Chaos out and fling the last bear toward his retreating back. By the time it gets there, the door has already closed behind him, but the bear embeds itself into the concrete wall next to the doorframe. I did not even know that was possible, but there it is.

And then I stomp out the other direction. I hear Vision calling after me, "Wanda, what's wrong?" but I don't answer him because I might accidentally break another one of the windowpanes (which, according to Stark, cost all of the dollars and next time he's going to take it out of my "pay", whatever that means).

* * *

I am determined to avoid the captain the rest of the day, which isn't hard because I can hear him coming CLUMP CLOMP CLUMP CLOMP so I just manage to be elsewhere by the time he enters the room.

* * *

 **Lesson 6**

The next morning I head down to the gym about 9:10, after a breakfast of coffee because the thought of food makes me faintly nauseous. When I enter I find that Vision isn't there, and the cardboard box full of teddy bears is gone too. In its place sits a tiny stuffed Captain America doll, complete with painted-on cowl and floppy fabric shield.

Biting my lip, I pick up the little doll and stare at it. Whose idea was this? And where did they even get the thing? Someone had to make a trip to a toy store, which I can't imagine Vision doing, and the captain doesn't really seem up to it right now either.

I turn the doll over in my hands and find a little note stuck to its back. "MAYBE THIS WILL HELP" it says in a block-letter scrawl. Where have I seen that writing before? It's not the captain's, or Vision's either.

I carefully sit the doll down on the floor on its bottom. It immediately falls over, so I try again and this time it stays sitting, listing a bit to the right. Once I am sure it is going to stay, I step back into position. It won't take much to throw this lightweight little doll up to the walkway, but I still hesitate. It looks so fragile, and I don't want it to get torn apart like the teddy bears.

Finally I summon the courage to open the door and let a few strands of Chaos through. While I roll them around in my hands, I watch the little doll sitting there still and helpless. Quite unlike the real captain, I realize, who even when he is still, exudes a quiet power that is _never_ helpless.

When I release the red bolt, the doll shoots up into the air, too high—when I wave my hand to the side, it goes flying directly into the upper part of a windowpane, ricochets off, and falls to the floor where it bounces and lands facedown.

"Oh, Captain!" I shout, even though it's only a doll. I run across the room, pick it up and inspect it carefully. At first I think all of its parts are intact, but then I spot a rip in the seam of the right leg, with white stuffing poking through just like bone.

Unexpectedly I burst into tears. Pulling the doll in, I wrap my arms around him and just hold him with my face against the helmet until it is soaked.

* * *

I take the little captain doll back to my room and carefully stitch the seam on his leg back together, then sit him on the shelf next to my television. I don't want to practice with the doll anymore. It looks too much like the real thing but _not_ at the same time. Lifeless. Helpless. Things I don't want the real captain to be.

* * *

 **Lesson 7, repeat**

After that, the bears return without any comment from either Vision or the captain. I practice with the seemingly endless supply for three more days while I wait for the captain to heal up enough to get the cast taken off (against the doctor's advice), then another three days while he does physical therapy with Natasha in the next gym, getting "back up to fighting speed" as he puts it. Judging by the amount of shouting and cursing he is doing during his therapy sessions, it seems like he should slow down a bit, but does he listen to me? No, he does not.

* * *

 **A/N: coming soon, Lesson 8: There aren't any spells**


	6. Lesson 8: There aren't any spells

**Flying lessons**

Or: How to throw Captain America through a window, in 10 easy lessons

* * *

 **Lesson 8: There aren't any spells**

* * *

After dinner at the end of the week, I finish the first season of Fear the Walking Dead, whereupon I shed ridiculous tears over Liza's death. Why should I care so much about her? She's not even real.

I decide to start on watching the Harry Potter movies next. It's a children's story, right? I need something light and fluffy, after the week I've had. This should be just the thing to lighten my mood.

It turns out I am wrong. I'm not even ten minutes in before Harry's parents are dead and he's sent to live with his horrible aunt and uncle. I grab the little captain doll off the shelf and hug it unconsciously while I watch.

And then they get to the "magic" part. He's in a _school_ learning how to _control_ _magic_. AS IF! It's completely ludicrous!

"What is this?" comes a voice from near the door. I hadn't even realize my door had opened, but I whirl around and find the captain leaning awkwardly against the doorframe with his arms folded, all of his weight balanced on his left leg.

I look him up and down before I answer, taking in the uncomfortable stance, the little pucker between his eyebrows, the tiny shadow of yellow-brown that still lingers under both sad-looking eyes. His gaze falls on the doll in my arms and his lip quirks up, almost like a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"Harry Potter," I say finally.

"Oh." He frowns at the screen. "He's a kid." On the screen a prepubescent Harry waves his wand, shouts a spell, and makes a book fly neatly to his hand.

"Yes, and they've got it all wrong," I grumble. I hit the button to mute the TV, just to make them all shut up with their silly "magic" and false hope.

"How do you mean?"

"There aren't any. . . spells, or charms, or whatever. It's completely unpredictable!"

"You seem to be able to control it somewhat. You're learning," he counters.

"I can't learn it."

"You're getting better."

"Tell that to the two dozen teddy bears I destroyed. Oh wait, you can't because they are in pieces in the trash."

"Ok, you _can_ get better. You _were_ getting better, before. . ."

"Before I broke your leg," I snarl. "I could have killed you."

The captain limps into the room and sits down on the bed next to me. His eyebrows are knitted together, mouth a straight line. "Wanda, this kind of power. . .If you can control it, you can do anything. We need that power on our team." I can see his jaw working from chewing the inside of his lip. "Please, Wanda."

I cave under the weight of his gaze. "Ok, I will keep trying."

His lips quirks up again, and this time his eyes crinkle up too, just a little. Oh, I am such a sucker for that smile. A little hope, I realize, is a dangerous thing.

"But we must slow down," I continue hurriedly. "If I can't keep control, you won't just fly up into the air; you'll be torn to pieces."

"I'm willing to take that risk," he says confidently, enthusiasm undimmed by my warning.

"I'm not!" I hug the little doll tighter, although he must think me ridiculous. "I can't live with myself if I kill Captain America."

"I'm notoriously difficult to kill," he says, grin widening. I press my lips together and glare at him, and he relents. "Ok, we'll take it slow," he says in an annoyingly patronizing voice. He's just humoring me, but I'll take what I can get at this point, as long as he cooperates.

He pushes himself off the bed awkwardly, right leg stiff. "Tomorrow morning, six a.m. in the main gym," he calls on his way out the door. Damn! Back to early mornings, I guess. "And make sure to thank Tony for that. . . doll."

Oh. So that's where I knew that handwriting from. His idea of a joke, obviously. Not that I'm complaining.

* * *

I make sure to arrive by six a.m. sharp this time, and again the captain is already there, doing stretches instead of windsprints this time. I suspect that he can't actually run on his injured leg yet, but I don't plan to ask.

It takes him a while to notice me, so I just stand inside the doorway and watch him using a long elastic band for resistance while he bends and straightens his leg over and over. It is clear, from the tension in his shoulders and his little grunt at the end of each rep, that it hurts, but he does not quit. Finally I get embarrassed to be standing there staring at him, so I clear my throat and say, "Good morning, Captain."

He startles but recovers quickly. "Hey, Wanda," he calls back. He climbs to his feet, wobbles a bit while catches his balance on his right leg. Then he limps over to the wall where he tosses down the elastic band and scoops up his shield and cowl.

"Are you sure you're healed up enough for this?"

"Yes, I'm ready. I've been practicing with Sam for three days now. I'm good to go." Stopping in the middle of the room, he demonstrates by jumping up and down on the balls of his feet. "See? I'm good. Now come on, let's get started."

This is not my definition of "slowing down", but what can I do? He's the captain. He's already pulled on his cowl and is arranging his shield on his sleeve with practiced ease.

I keep a tight rein on the door this time, just allowing it to open wide enough to let through a few scarlet strings, which I roll in my hands for an unnecessarily long time, until his lips are pressed together in annoyance. All right, fine.

I fling out the strand and send him up into the air, only a meter or so, then haul him back down, where he lands gently on his left foot, right foot barely touching the ground.

"Well, that's a start," he says, with his eyebrows raised. "Go higher next time."

So I lift him up again, almost two meters this time, and set him down again carefully. I'm afraid to let go even for a second lest he fall on his injured leg and get hurt all over again.

When I release him, he flings his arms out. "I'm not made of glass," he snaps. "I'm not gonna break!"

"That's not true!" I rejoin hotly. "You could break. I've seen it!"

"C'mon, Wanda. This is useless. Don't you want to be useful to the team?"

Now that is unfair. I feel the heat climbing up my neck and into my scalp. "If I'm not useful, will you send me away? Send me to prison?"

He shakes his head. "No, I won't do that. Of course I won't do that."

"You might not, but what about Mr. Stark?"

There is a pause. He blinks, and says finally (much too late), "Tony won't either."

I scoff. "You don't know that. This is the first place I've lived in a long time that had the lock on the inside of the door instead of the outside. Do you have any idea what that means to me?"

He stares at me silently with a troubled expression: eyebrows pulled together, mouth tight. Finally he takes a deep breath and says slowly, "I promise you can stay," His eyes drill into mine. "Do you understand me? I promise."

"Not if I kill you."

"You won't kill me. You can stay even if you hurt me again. No matter what. I promise. Do you believe me?"

After a long pause, I swallow hard and say, "Yes," in a small voice.

"Wanda, these powers you have, they have enormous potential, but you have to learn to control them, and I believe you can. If I didn't believe that, I wouldn't have you on my team." His gaze is steady, but he's chewing the inside of his lip again. After a moment, I catch a flash of anxiety behind his eyes, and then it's gone. Why would Captain America be anxious? Why does he want me on his team anyway? Is it enough that he _does_? I don't know, but I do want him to smile, even though that seems unlikely at this point. The enthusiasm he had exuded at the beginning of this process appears to have dissipated entirely, leaving in its place only a desperate determination.

"For you," I say finally, "I will keep trying, but you have to understand it's not easy. I have only ever used my powers to destroy."

"That's not all they're good for. You have to believe that," he insists.

"I wish I could."

"Wanda. . ." He seems ready to keep trying to convince me, but I am done. Enough pointless talk.

"I'm ready to keep trying now. Isn't that what you wanted?" It comes out harsher than I intended, and I see him flinch.

"Ok, yes," he says, backing into position with his shield at the ready.

Taking a deep breath, I summon a several-stranded braid of red and toss him into the air—higher, but nowhere near as high as we had done at previous practice sessions. At the end I add a flick of my fingers to produce lateral movement, but save some of the bolt to catch him on the way down. Unfortunately, he is already attempting to catch himself, so he lands awkwardly with his right leg buckling under him.

He tucks, rolls, and comes up favoring his right leg, mouth pulled back into a grimace.

"Captain!" I exclaim as he limps back to the starting position, but he waves me off.

"I'm all right."

"Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine. Let's go again." But he doesn't look fine. He's clearly in pain.

"Your leg is hurt," I point out.

"I said I'm _fine_!" he snaps, his mouth a straight, tense line. "Go again!"

I feel a spike of anger at his tone, which makes the chaos harder to control. I clench my hands into fists to keep the strings from escaping, but I feel them crackling at my fingertips.

"Come on." He motions to me impatiently, like 'bring it on.' He does not understand what he is playing with. How could he understand? He's never tried to plug a volcano.

Closing my eyes, I push my anger down until it reaches a slow simmer. Despite my misgivings, I try again, and this time he flies up into the air. When I flick him to the side, I push too hard and he tumbles off the far side of the walkway with his body curled into a tight ball. Fear replaces anger at the sight: my fear, but I can sense his as well. The ability to sense fear is one skill I've mastered. Go, me.

I use my fear to reach out again and grab him quickly enough to slow his descent. I am sure I have hurt him again, but he rolls and comes up to his feet with a grim expression on his face. Yanking off the cowl, he tosses it away as he stalks back into position. His sweaty hair hangs down over his forehead and sticks up in the back.

"Again," he growls.

My anger flares again. It would be so easy— _so easy_ —to give up the fight, let the Chaos destroy him, let it tear him to pieces like the teddy bears. He's afraid, I remind myself. Even though he sounds angry, really he's feeling anxious for this to work, which is a desire I share. We are on the same team. The captain is _not my enemy_.

So I do it again. I shoot out the red rope and pick him up, throw him higher—yes, high enough!-to the side, where he. . . overshoots the walkway and flies directly toward the window.

"Shit!" I cry frantically. I fling out a bolt to pull him back, but it's too late. He pulls the shield up in front of himself just in time to avoid getting a faceful of glass as he crashes through an upper pane of the window. Sparkly bits of glass rain down around me; I have to wrap my arms around my head to keep them out of my eyes, which means I can't catch him. He's too far away anyway now, outside the building in the semi-dark, where he will land with full force on the concrete.

Shielding my eyes as best I can in the crook of my arm, I sprint toward the doorway, but before I reach it, the door opens and he comes limping back in with his shield hanging loosely at his side. His chin, elbow, and knee are scraped but otherwise he looks fine. Oh, thank god.

My relief quickly returns to anger as he stomps back to the middle of the gym and lifts the shield. His arm trembles from the effort of simply holding it into place, but he _will not quit_. He will not quit, but _I_ can.

I drop my hands to my sides and force my fists to uncurl. "I'm done for today," I grind out through gritted teeth.

"No! We're not gonna quit!" he shouts, but I'm already headed toward the door. "WANDA!" Even though I can now hear a hint of desperation in his voice, I am not swayed. I am done.

Just before I reach the door, he calls after me, "Tomorrow morning, same time."

I snarl at him in reply, grab the door and haul it open with far too much force, so much so that it bounces against the wall, causing the glass to shatter. I don't even slow down.

I stomp up the stairs instead of taking the elevator, five floors, with each step echoing off the hard walls and ceiling until I am surrounded by noise, LOUD and clanging, just like the noise in my head, just like the staccato pounding of my heart.

When I get back to my room, I slam that door too, hard enough that it bounces open again, so I just leave it. It doesn't matter anyway. If Vision wants to come in, he will whether the door is open or closed, so what does it matter?

I pace, back and forth in the small floorspace, back and forth, anger building up and building up as I replay the end of the "practice session" over and over. Why won't he just give up? It's not going to work! It's pointless and infuriating.

I can feel the Chaos building up behind the door, responding to my rage. I'm so sick of holding it back when I just want to lash out. Destruction is what I was created for, what I trained for. It's what I DO!

The Chaos finally breaks through. With a roar, I fling my hands out and unleash a bolt, which flies into my TV and shatters it into a thousand pieces of plastic, metal, and glass. I am surrounded by a sea of little sparkly bits, like the stars have fallen from the sky. On the part of the shelf that is still intact, the little Captain America doll has fallen over onto its side. The expressionless, painted-on blue eyes silently mock me. I grab the doll (with my hand, because I still don't want to destroy it) and toss it under my bed. Then, breathing hard, I sink down on the wrinkled blanket and put my hands over my face, spent.

After a moment, I become aware that someone else is there, and when I look up, I find Sam leaning casually against the doorframe with his eyebrows raised.

"Hey, Wanda," he says with a note of amusement in his voice. "I was going to ask how things were going, but I think I can figure it out on my own. What happened?"

I survey the wreckage with my lips pressed together and shrug carelessly. "I destroyed the TV."

"I get that. I'm asking why?"

"I threw the captain through a window," I admit, guilt weighing down the words. I chew on my lip anxiously.

Sam's eyebrows climb even further. "You're letting him practice again?"

"Isn't he practicing with you? He said he was."

Sam scoffs. "I benched him."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I practice, and he watches from the bench. He's not ready to get tossed around the room."

"That's what I told him!" I cry. "He wouldn't listen to me."

Sam shakes his head. "That boy. . ."

"He's hardly a boy," I point out.

"I call 'em like I see 'em," Sam said. "And if that _boy_ doesn't slow down, he's gonna end up with a lot worse than a broken leg."

* * *

 **A/N: coming soon, lesson 9: Steve Rogers gets broken (This one may not have been an accident, sorry)**


	7. Lesson 9: Steve Rogers gets broken

**Flying lessons**

Or: How to throw Captain America through a window, in 10 easy lessons

* * *

 **Lesson 9: Steve Rogers gets broken (this one may not have been an accident, sorry)**

* * *

I don't see the captain at all the rest of the day. When I ask Natasha about him, she says he's been in the gym all day, which is exactly the place I don't want to be.

"Do you think he's ready to go back to training?" I ask her.

Natasha shrugs. "I've told him he should take it easy, but he thinks he's ready."

"He wants to pick up where we left off."

She takes a deep breath and lets it out through her nose in a huff. "I know you don't know Steve very well yet, Wanda, but you'll learn that once he sets his mind on something, it's impossible to talk him out of it."

"So you think I should go along with it?"

"I didn't say that. You do what works for you. I'm just saying you're fighting a losing battle if you think you can get him to give up." And then she sashays out without a backward glance, leaving me glaring at her back.

I sneak my dinner in a comfy little nook on a sunny corner of the roof, where I have an unobstructed view of the surrounding countryside. This would be a good place to watch the sunrise, I realize. The only building I can see is a dilapidated barn far off in the distance. It's peaceful. Hard to believe anything bad can happen in the world in a place like this. I sit and soak it in until long after the sun has set behind me and I'm half-frozen. It's then that I discover a neatly folded blue woolen blanket tucked back into a corner, so I wrap it around myself and sit there for at least another hour in the gathering dark, until the mosquitoes finally drive me inside.

When I get back to my room, the shattered bits of my old TV have disappeared and a new TV hangs on the wall in its place. On the small shelf next to the TV sits the little Captain America doll, carefully propped up on its bottom. I turn it around to face the wall before I get into bed. It's on time out, just like our mother used to do to Pietro when he wouldn't obey.

* * *

I wander into the main gym after 6:15 the next morning, dressed in my usual street clothes instead of the comfortable workout clothes Vision gave me. I was ready to go at 5:35, but it took me over a half hour of arguing with myself to convince myself that I was really going to do this. I finally got up and moving after realizing that without this team, without Captain Rogers, I would be back out on the streets, only this time without Pietro at my side.

He's already standing in the middle of the gym when I enter, shield at the ready. No cowl this time, not that it did a very good job of protecting him anyway. "You're late," he says briskly. His face is set and his tone is even. All that little-boy excitement is gone; it's all business and grim determination now.

I just shrug. I'm not going to apologize when I don't even want to be here. After a moment of stare-down (which I think I win because he looks away first), he says "Fine. Let's get started."

"Fine," I reply tightly. My fingers are buzzing already, but I am determined as well, determined to keep control no matter what. I will do whatever it takes to prevent him from flying through a window again. He might not be so lucky next time as to walk away with a few scrapes and bruises.

I open the door only a tiny sliver and allow through enough Chaos to lift him up into the air and gently set him down again. He is never out of my grasp the entire time.

Once he is back on his feet again, he scowls at me fiercely. "Again!" he barks. "Harder!"

So I do it again, exactly the same. He can make me practice, but he can't make me put him in danger. I won't do it. I _won't_.

This time he stomps across the floor toward me. "Come on, Wanda!" he orders. "Stop holding back!"

I can feel the control slipping, but I won't let it go. I WON'T. "I can't!" I shout back.

He is in my face now. His brow is furrowed and the partially healed scrape on his chin has turned bright red. "Yes, you can! You have to do this! I can't have you on my team if I'm not sure—" he suddenly breaks off and takes a stumbling step back, eyes flicking to the side as if he's said too much. And he _has_. My resolve starts to crumble in the light of the truth, that he doesn't want me, he _never_ wanted me.

"Not sure _which_ _side I'm on_?" I snarl. " _Isn't that what you meant_?" I can feel the rage coursing through my muscles, down my arms to the tips of my trembling fingers. Behind the door, the Chaos waits like a coiled snake, ready to strike. He says nothing, but he is breathing hard and fast.

"It is, isn't it?" I demand.

"I—I didn't—" But he's lying, I know he's lying, just like he lied when he said he was training with Sam. Just like every time he said he was fine when really his ribs were BROKEN and he was covered in goddamn bruises. Just like when he said I was part of his team _no matter what_.

"YES YOU DID!" I scream. My determination to maintain control is gone, and in its place is red hot fury, which is all the invitation the Chaos needs. The door flies open, and the bolt speeds down my fingers and flings him backward, like a puppet on a string, until he slams into the wall.

CRASH!

As I aim the next strike, he goes into a crouch with the shield up to protect his body. But it can't protect him from ME. The Chaos will work on the shield just as easily as on him.

"Wanda, control it!" he shouts in a strained voice. The top of his blond head peeks up above the shield, presenting a nice target for the rage that courses through me.

" _You wanted to see what I can do_!" I roar. " _I'm showing you_!" The bolt of Chaos grabs the shield and drives it forward, into his face. The sharp edge slices into his cheek, just below his eye.

CRASH!

I see a bright spurt of blood before he ducks down again, still trusting the shield to protect him, but it _can't_. NOTHING can protect him from me.

"Control it!" he cries. But I don't stop. _Won't_ stop. _Can't_ stop. The Chaos shoots out and slams him into the wall again.

CRASH!

"Wanda! Stop!" There's panic in his voice now. _Fear_. I know what he fears. Captain America fears not belonging, being left out, left behind. When I did the hex on him before, that fear paralyzed him, left him writhing on the floor, hurt him much more than any physical wound would.

Then, I didn't even know him. He was just my nameless, faceless enemy. I didn't care what I did to him. Now. . . he is my friend, or was. But I am past caring. I do the unthinkable. The unforgivable. I violate him in the only way that will truly hurt him. I drive into his mind to find that fear and use it against him. He fears not belonging? _I will show him not belonging_!

But I find something different, something I didn't expect. . .

 _The captain is kneeling on a grimy sidewalk, but not as I know him. He is very small, tiny, with a floppy lock of dirty blond hair hanging down over his forehead. His upturned face is filthy and bruised, eye swollen nearly shut. Images flash past, so quickly that I can barely process them before they are gone:_

 _Sam spiraling down out of the sky, with flames and a plume of black smoke spouting from one wing. . ._

 _Tony hit with some sort of weapon that shoots a cloud of dust, which envelops him and melts the very skin from his face, leaving him a grinning red skull. . ._

 _Colonel Rhodes lying sightless on the ground, his War Machine suit scorched and broken. A large chunk of concrete falls from a damaged building and crushes him._

 _CRASH!_

 _The chaotic scene wavers, disappears, and is replaced by a kitchen with a chipped white enameled stove and worn tile floor. His skinny body is huddled under a wooden table, with an overturned chair pulled in front of him like a shield. Tears track down his thin face and drip off his chin. His breathing is loud and fast; his shoulders rise and his belly sucks in with every inhalation. Over the breathing comes the sound of a man's raised voice, and through the legs of the table, I can make out the blurry shapes of two people—a man in scuffed brown workboots and frayed gray striped trousers, and a woman in a blue skirt and low heel. The man holds the woman's arm in a tight grip and shakes her violently._

 _"You stupid cow!" the man shouts. "This is the third dinner in a row ruined. I think you're doing it on purpose." The woman murmurs something in response, her voice pleading, but I can't make out the words. "Bitch!" he yells. Far above me I see his arm pull back as if for a blow._

 _Suddenly the tiny boy is a blur of movement, bursting out from under the table and leaping up to grab the man's upraised arm. "It was my fault!" he cries. The man's face, purple with rage, turns toward the boy, whose eyes widen in fear but he does not let go of the man's arm._

 _The man screams "Horrid little bastard!" with a line of spittle flying from his angry slash of a mouth. Releasing the woman, he grabs the boy and slams him back onto the table, which sends dishes and scraps of food flying._

 _"George, please! Leave him alone!" the woman pleads, but he shakes off her placating grasp. While the boy gasps and chokes, the man raises his fist to strike._

 _CRASH!_

 _In a flash, we are back at the chaotic street scene. Natasha is running toward him, when suddenly shots ring out and bright blooms of blood spout from her stomach and neck. She falls forward, hand reaching out. The boy runs toward her, but he can't reach her before she lands like a broken doll, hair splayed out around her head, covering her face._

 _CRASH!_

 _The scene changes. Now the boy is older, still too thin and slight, pants several centimeters too short, blond hair hanging in his face, which sports several yellow-green bruises. He races up a set of rickety stairs in a blind panic, lungs burning, late late late too late getting home from Bucky's house, George will be home already and he's too late. He can hear them arguing from the top step, flings open the scuffed door to find that the man has the woman pushed up against the wall with his hand around her throat._

 _The boy grabs the man's arm and tries in vain to pull him off. "Let her go!" he shouts hoarsely._

 _The man turns bloodshot eyes on the boy without releasing the woman. "Where've you been?" he slurs drunkenly._

 _"I was skipping school!" The boy cries in desperation. It is a lie. He will say anything to deflect the man's attention from the woman, who is digging at the fingers wrapped around her throat. What else can he try? "I'm failing math!"_

 _This has the desired effect. The man releases his grip on the woman, who doubles over gasping and choking, and grabs the boy instead by both shoulders. The boy's head snaps back as the man slams him against the wall._

 _CRASH!_

 _Back to the street. Now I see myself, with bright lines of Chaos shooting from my hands, attempting to hold off an attacker who is several times my size. The boy cries out "WANDA!" Suddenly I am hit from behind by a bolt of energy that knocks me flat and leaves me twitching on the broken concrete._

 _CRASH!_

 _Another change, now a dirty alleyway behind a rundown brick building. The boy, slightly taller but still slim and sickly-looking, with a reddish-purple scrape on one cheekbone, creeps along the pitted pavement, one hand trailing against the rough wall, toward a car: cherry red with wagon-spoke wheels, long nose, and a squared-off black top. The car is held up precariously on a jack, with a pair of legs sticking out from under the side—frayed gray striped trousers, scuffed brown workboots. The sounds of cursing and a metallic clanging float out._

 _The boy creeps closer. His jaw is set and his lips are pressed together into a determined line, but his eyes—his eyes are desperate, terrified. His pale, trembling hand reaches out toward the car._

 _CRASH!_

The sound of the captain screaming breaks the hex and brings me out of the trance. I stand wavering on my feet and stare at the crumpled figure in front of me. The shield has slipped down, his hands are clamped over his ears, eyes scrunched closed and mouth open.

The scream fades, and the captain's head snaps toward me. His eyes open wide with terror, his irises still stained red from the hex. For a moment the only sound is his stuttering breathing, loud and fast. His shoulders rise and his belly sucks in with each noisy inhalation. Then suddenly he scrambles to his feet, slipping and stumbling on the hard gym floor, drops the shield which lands with a solid thunk, and bolts.

He is out the door and around the corner before I even am able to gather myself enough to react. What the HELL did I just see?


	8. Lesson 9, ct: different kinds of shields

**Flying lessons**

Or: How to throw Captain America through a window, in 10 easy lessons

* * *

 **Lesson 9, continued: The captain's many shields**

* * *

In a daze I stumble to my room and sit on my bed with my hands tightly clasped over my ears. His vision—what did it mean? I'm not telepathic, not really. Sometimes I can plant suggestions, but what the hex usually does is find what people fear and show it to them. Sometimes it's a traumatic memory, sometimes fears for the future, but it comes from them, not from me. I am just the conduit.

The captain's vision seems to be a tangled mess of both memory and future fears. The images of our team members are clearly something he is afraid of: us dying or dead and himself unable to stop it. But the others, were they memories? The images swirl around in my mind, tumbling over and over. Tear tracks on a narrow face. Raised fists. Yellow-green bruises. Light glinting off cherry red metal. A thin, trembling hand reaching out—reaching for what? I don't know, but whatever it was, it put the captain over the edge.

The little captain doll is still facing the wall from when I put him in time out yesterday. I pick him up and turn him around in my hands. The dumb face stares back at me unblinking.

"What happened to you?" I ask him softly, but the doll just continues to stare at me blankly. I'll get no answers here. The only way to get answers is to go to the source, but where is he? Where would he go to hide if he were hurt or afraid?

"FRIDAY," I say in an uneven voice. "Where is Captain Rogers?"

"I'm sorry, Wanda, I'm not allowed to divulge the captain's whereabouts without his permission," the AI responds in her usual reasonable tone.

She's not? That surprises me. "Why not?"

"Captain Rogers has given me standing instructions not to divulge his location without his permission. If you would like, I can ask him?"

"No, thanks," I reply quickly. I'd rather he didn't know I was looking for him. I sink back into my bed and think about where he might go. Possibly his bedroom? Too easy. He would go somewhere hidden, somewhere safe, protected from the modern world. . .

And suddenly I realize where he must be. Of course—I should have known that was where the blanket came from. The captain hates to be cold.

I decide I can't face him empty-handed, so I go to the kitchen and fix five pieces of toast covered in fake cheese, then I stuff the pockets of my jacket with granola bars, apples, bananas, and cheese sticks until they can't hold any more.

Balancing the overloaded plate in one hand and a huge glass of milk in the other, I push open the door at the top of the stairs with my elbow and make my way carefully out onto the roof. The clear sky is tinged with shades of gold and orange from the imminent sunrise, which surprises me. Inside with no windows, I hadn't realized what a gorgeous day it was going to be.

I come around the corner to the cozy nook to find the captain sitting with his arms wrapped around his left knee, right leg stretched out awkwardly in front of him, the blanket pulled tightly around his shoulders. The first rays of the sunrise illuminate his face in a golden light.

I freeze in place, because he is _crying_. Captain America, Steve Rogers, _my friend_ , is crying because of what I did to him.

His eyes flick to me but he says nothing. Taking a deep breath, I kneel down and set the plate and glass on the roof in front of him, then start unloading my pockets. Granola bars, cheese sticks, and fruit are added to the plate until it is covered in a virtual mountain of food. My peace offering.

He continues to cry soundlessly. His eyes follow my movements while the tears flow over the gash in his cheek, which has already started to heal over, and make a streaky mess of the remains of the partially dried blood smeared across the left side of his face. When my pockets are empty, he still sits unmoving except for a minute trembling of the blanket. I don't know what to do next. My plan did not extend beyond "bring him food to atone for my sins" and certainly did not include him in tears.

"I'm sorry," I offer lamely, after an awkward pause.

He just watches me warily. I see his adam's apple bob up and down in a hard swallow, but still he says nothing. I stand there stupidly for a few seconds, considering whether to stay or run. If I run, it's over. I might as well pack my bag and keep running, right out of the compound to the nearest bus station. The thought brings a hard knot of despair to my stomach and a lump to my throat. I can't run away, because I'll be taking my problems with me. Wherever I go, the Chaos goes too. There is no escaping it.

So if I'm not going to run, I need to sit. Talk to him. Figure out what's going on and how to make it better. Pushing down my anxiety, I slip into the nook and sit down next to him with my arms around my knees.

"Was that your father?" I ask tentatively.

"No, my father was a war hero," he says fiercely, as if daring me to dispute it. "George was my _stepfather_ ," he adds, and his vehement voice turns it into a swear word.

"Oh. I'm - I'm sorry he hurt you," I venture.

He shakes his head: a quick, tense movement. "I didn't care about that. He hurt my _mom_. I had to stop him. He would have killed us if I hadn't. I did what I had to do to protect her."

With a jolt, I suddenly realize what I saw in that last memory. His determined, desperate face and trembling hand. . . "The car. . ." I whisper, with my heart hammering so loudly I'm not even sure I've spoken aloud.

"1923 Studebaker Big Six," he says immediately in a flat voice, like reciting a well-rehearsed script. "Five passenger speedster with nickel-plated radiator shell and bumpers." His eyes are fixed on the horizon where the morning light show has intensified, but I'm not sure he's even seeing it. "He loved that car. Wouldn't let anyone else touch it. Once, when I was eight, I decided to sit in it, just to see what it felt like. He caught me and beat me so bad I couldn't go to school for a week. Then he. . . beat my mom for not controlling me."

"So you. . . dropped the car on him?" I force myself to confirm.

He sniffs hard and drags the corner of the blanket across his nose. "It felt like justice, that the only thing he loved was what killed him."

"Did your mother know?"

"No, I couldn't do that to her. It would have killed her."

"Did you tell anyone else?"

"No. Bucky suspected, I think, because when the police came around asking where I had been that afternoon, Bucky lied and said I was with him." I can see the muscle at his temple jumping from grinding his teeth, and finally his eyes cut to me. "And now _you_ know." He is watching me with an anxious, searching expression. I realize he is afraid I will tell someone, expose his secret, but who would I even tell? It was almost ninety years ago; anyone who would have cared is long dead.

"I know it's hard to believe, after what just happened, but you can trust me. I am good at keeping secrets."

The corner of his mouth curves up, just a little, but the anxiety does not fade from his eyes. "I trust you," he says simply, and I realize it's true. He trusts me, not just with his secret, but with his _life_. With _everything_. It makes me both extremely happy and terrified at the same time.

"Good," I say with a grin. "Because you don't really have any choice."

I hope desperately that this will get a smile, but he just gives a short nod and resumes staring at the sunrise, which bathes his wet face in an almost other-wordly glow. He is still crying, and I have no idea what to say or do to make it better.

"I shouldn't have done that to you. I'm sorry I hurt you," I finally offer.

There is a long pause. I'm not sure he's going to accept my apology. In fact, I might have made it worse, because his eyes squint and his breathing goes harsh and uneven.

"Captain?"

"I hate feeling like this," he says finally, in a rough, hoarse voice.

"Like—like what? Afraid?"

Another tense shake of his head. "Fear I can handle. It doesn't stop me."

Then what? Suddenly I see again that boy, running to try to save Natasha as she is gunned down in front of him. Grabbing his stepfather's arm in a vain attempt to divert attention from his mother. Screaming my name, but unable to save me. In his vision, he was so small. . ."Powerless," I guess again, and the way his shoulders hunch tells me I've nailed it.

He lets out a shaky breath and scrubs hard at his face with the heels of his hands. "I really need this to _work_ , and I can't—I can't. . ."

Need what to work? I hazard a guess, based on what Colonel Rhodes said. "The. . . flying thing?"

"This _team_ ," he says intently. "You guys are all I've got left." His voice cracks in a heartbreaking sob, and then he ducks his head and pulls the blanket up over his face. Hiding like it's his shield.

So this is what is really going on here. All this time, when I had seen the captain as confident and in charge, he saw himself as powerless and weak, and his greatest fear was that he wouldn't be able to protect us when the need arose. I had selfishly thought of it as us needing him, relying on him, but to him it's the opposite—he needs us and relies on us. Everything he ever knew is gone and _we_ are all he's got now. And we are doing a shitty job of working as a team. Suddenly I want to touch him, wrap my arms around him like I did with the little doll. Protect him forever.

I tentatively slide my hand onto his broad back, where the muscles are taut and quivering. He is still hiding his face in the blanket, but one hand comes out and grabs a fistful of the hem of my jacket. His fingers twist in the fabric while he wrestles his emotions back under control. It's painful to watch. My eyes are welling up too, and I impatiently brush the tears away.

"I'm sorry," I offer again, because I don't know what else to say. And I am sorry. Sorry for hurting him, yes, but also sorry for not seeing, not noticing that his enthusiasm was forced, that he was using the veneer of confidence as a shield. And, I realize, I'm sorry for seeing everyone around me as threats, not allies; taking pre-emptive notes on their fears and weaknesses instead of looking for ways to connect with them. I was so caught up in my own fears and insecurities that I hadn't even thought of myself as part of a _team_ , part of something bigger.

Finally his sobs fade. He releases my jacket and wipes his face with the hem of the blanket. With a sniffle, he picks up a piece of toast while giving me a sideways glance. "You're sort of terrifying, you know. I'm glad you're on my side."

I'm terrifying? I don't think I'm terrifying. Sure, I can throw things around the room with my mind, destroy things with a gesture, give people visions of the things that frighten them most. . . hmm, maybe he's got a point.

If I'm part of a team, it's time I act like it. I bite my lip. "So. . . What are we going to work on next, Captain?"

He turns his face to me with raised eyebrows. "You mean it?" he asks through a mouthful of toast. The lock of hair has flopped down over his forehead again and I reach out automatically to brush it back. He doesn't pull away; in fact, he submits to my touch with a lopsided grin, bends his head down a little to make it easier for me to reach. Embarrassed, I quickly pull my hand back.

"Yes, I'll try again. Not tomorrow, because your leg has to heal better first. Next week," I promise him. I'll do anything to keep that smile on his face.

* * *

 **A/N: coming soon, Lesson 10: Wanda lets go**


	9. Lesson 10: Wanda lets go

**Flying lessons**

Or: How to throw Captain America through a window, in 10 easy lessons

* * *

 **Lesson 10: Wanda lets go**

* * *

I make the captain wait over a week before the next training session. He keeps limping by my room saying things like "I'm practicing with Sam again for real" and "Natasha says I don't need any more physical therapy sessions" or "I can run really fast now. Wanna see?" with a hopeful expression on his face.

In the meantime, I decide to work on my new commitment to be part of a team. I consider Sam to be the least intimidating member of the team, just because he always has a smile for me, unlike Natasha who always seems like she is thinking of ways to kill me (probably not true, but that's how my mind works). So I find him first and ask him to let me fly with him.

"You mean throw you around?" he says with a glint in his eye.

"Y-yes. I mean, I can't fly on my own, and there may be some time when I need to-"

"Yeah, let's do it!" He rubs his hands together in obvious glee. I give him the side-eye while I wonder what I've gotten myself into.

Despite my fears, Sam turns out to be almost overly protective. He makes me wear a harness and won't even let go of me until I unbuckle the damn thing myself and drop almost two meters to land on my feet on the upper walkway.

"Damn, girl!" he says with a delighted grin, and after that he eases up a bit. I find myself agreeing that flying is FUN.

Emboldened, I approach Natasha to ask her to teach me some techniques in hand-to-hand combat. She narrows her eyes at me suspiciously.

"I thought that wasn't really your. . . thing," she says with a hand motion that I assume is meant to imitate my Chaos-shaping gestures.

"I'm sure there will be times when I need it. I'd like to be able to defend myself if the need arises."

She looks me over with a grin. "If you're serious, I could teach you a few things that could help you out, use your opponent's momentum against them. Banner falls for it every time."

After the first session, I'm ready to quit, but on our way out of the gym, she tosses me a tube of something called Icy Hot and says "Not bad, kiddo." This makes me feel disproportionately happy.

* * *

I keep practicing with the bears, with Vision "helping", until there is just one left in the box: a factory reject with a misshapen nose and one paw smaller than the others. Vision doesn't even appear to notice it is different, but for some reason the goofy little thing makes me smile, and that tiny touch of joy helps me get my anxiety under control until I can actually throw the bear up onto the walkway, and even get it back down again without destroying it. I'm so happy I grab Vision in a hug, which leaves him standing motionless for nearly a minute while I snap my fingers in front of his face shouting his name. When he finally unfreezes, it's like a computer rebooting, and he doesn't even seem to remember it happened.

Almost giddy, I take the bear back to my room, running into Sam on the way. "I didn't kill it!" I burst out.

Sam grins at the funny bear, holds up its paw and says "Lucky fin!" while giving it a high five. I have no idea what that means, but Sam just pats me on the shoulder, says, "Yeah, I'll show you that movie sometime. You'll like it," and keeps walking.

* * *

The next session with Vision, I am about to grab the bear to practice with, when I impulsively decide to take the little captain doll instead. The bear is too easy now—I need something more dangerous to keep my emotional level high enough to open the door.

Vision raises his eyebrows when he sees it. "I thought you had decided not to risk destroying it," he says.

"I think I can do it. I just wish this little helmet could come off. Poor guy probably has a headache."

Vision cocks his head like he is about to ask a question, but I just say, "Never mind," and set the little doll down in the middle of the room. It takes me several tries, but I finally get it up onto the walkway and back down without major damage. I even manage to throw him from one walkway to another, and then down into Vision's arms, who catches it with a surprised little "Oh!".

"Excellent work, Wanda," Vision assures me, but I don't allow myself to be too happy about it. I've seen what Joy can do, and I don't want that to happen to the little doll.

* * *

After a week, when the captain stops by my room to say "I can jump now" and proves it by leaping up to touch the light fixture, I finally realize his limp is gone and his smile actually reaches his eyes again.

"Want to practice tomorrow?" I ask him. I'm still not sure it's going to work with the real captain, but I feel I owe it to him to try again, since I did promise.

"Definitely! Six a.m., main gym," he tells me with some of the old enthusiasm.

"Seven a.m." I overrule him. "And we'll go get burek after, since I never got any."

"That was not my fault!"

"Maybe not, but you still ate my piece. And I know how to ride on a motorcycle," I say. He opens his mouth to respond, but I walk away before he can get the words out.

* * *

I'm a bit more human at seven a.m. than at six, but not by much. I'm not as grumpy, for one thing. That's probably good, since anger is more difficult to control, but not as hard as Joy, which as I discovered, is impossible. Anxiety is best, but that has decreased quite a bit as well, so I'm not sure how I'm going to do today.

The captain is jumping rope when I enter the room. As soon as he sees me, he calls, "See, Wanda? I told you I was better!"

"Yes, I can see that."

He drops the jumprope and scoops up his cowl and shield on the way over. His cowl looks different—it doesn't cover his ears anymore, and the chinstrap is wider.

"Your cowl looks different," I say without thinking.

"Yeah, Vision brought me a new one. He said he thought it might be more comfortable? I don't know why he would think that." He gives me a questioning look, until I finally shrug and look away. I wait nervously with my arms folded while he pulls on the cowl and adjusts the shield on his arm. Maybe this was not a good idea after all. What if I lose control again?

Finally he nods at me and says, "Ready?"

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yep."

I hug myself a little tighter and look around the room. The anxiety, which had faded so much in the past week, is back in force. "What if I uncover some more. . . dark secrets or whatever?"

"You said I could trust you, and I do. Whatever you see, I know you'll keep it to yourself."

I open my mouth to offer another lame excuse, but he just shakes his head. "Come on, Wanda. You can do this. I have faith in you."

Damn him and his all-American idealism. How am I supposed to argue against that? "All right. Let's try it."

"That's the spirit!" He holds up the shield and goes into a half-crouch, obviously waiting, so I pull the Chaos through and roll it in my hands. When I send out the bolt, I immediately follow up with another to catch him and carefully lower him to the ground.

"Ok, that's a start," he says enthusiastically. "Let's go higher."

So I do, with lateral movement this time, and again I immediately catch him and lower him so he lands on his feet, where he wobbles a bit before catching his balance when I release him.

"Not bad," he says, but his enthusiasm sounds forced this time. "Let's try for the walkway."

"Ok," I say reluctantly. I send out a bolt to pick him up and carry him up to the walkway, but when I try to set him down, he loses his footing and slips off the side. He starts to fall, so I shoot out another bolt to catch him, which knocks his feet out from under him just as he is trying to tuck in for a landing. Instead of landing on his feet, he comes down awkwardly on his shield with a grunt.

"Did I hurt you?" I call anxiously.

He rolls to the side and slowly climbs back to his feet. Instead of getting back into position, he comes and stands directly in front of me with his hands on his hips. His eyes search my face as if he's trying to solve a puzzle.

After a moment, I get uncomfortable with him silently staring at me with that contemplative expression and ask, "So are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm ok."

"Then what?"

"You said I had to trust you, and I do."

"Okay." I thought we had already established that. Why is he bringing it up again?

Another searching glance. "What about you? Do you trust me?"

"Of course," I say immediately. Of course I trust him, or I wouldn't be here.

"I mean really. Do you really trust me?"

"Yes," I reply firmly. I do trust him completely. He believed in me when no one else did. He fought for me to be on his team. Without him, I'd be rotting in a jail cell somewhere, or worse.

"Then let go."

"What? Captain," I say in a reasonable tone. "We've both seen what happens when I let go."

He shakes his head. "No, not let go of control. Let go of _me_. You're holding on too tight. You have to trust me that I can land safely."

"I don't know—" I start, but he interrupts me.

"Trust me, Please. I can do this. Just let me go."

Now it's my turn to search his face. Can he do this? What will happen to him if I let go? Am I willing to trust him enough to find out? Clearly, what we have been trying isn't working. If he thinks he can do it, then I should at least be willing to give it a try, right?

After wrestling with myself for another minute, I finally nod slowly. "I will try it," I say, and he responds with a huge grin.

"Aces!" He backs up into position again, going into a crouch with his shield at the ready. "Ok, Wanda. Let's do this."

My anxiety has grown to the point where the door opens easily now, and the Chaos slides through without any effort on my part. When I have enough, I push the door shut and hold it while I roll the scarlet filaments around in my hands. He waits, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, eyes on the walkway.

Finally I shoot the bolt out, flick my fingers up in an arc.

And then, I let him go.

And he _flies_. . .

* * *

A/N: Aaand we all know what happened next. Maybe Wanda should have practiced that lateral movement a little more, like how to aim AWAY from occupied buildings. Anyway, this story is complete. I've been working on a really LOOOOONG Sherlock story for months, almost ready to post the first chapter. This story was a little respite from the angst in that one. Hope you enjoyed it!


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